


Come, Tell Me How You Live

by somewhereelse



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:38:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: One-shots for the Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon 2018...03. Hidden | Queen-Smoak-Clayton fluff04. Closed Door | Season 6 AU + Neighbors AU05. Surrounded | Hurt/Comfort06. Caught in the Middle | Marriages & Inconveniences07. Unfinished | Season 7 Spec





	1. Revelation

**Author's Note:**

> I’m going to complete all of them this hiatus, she said, with a head full of intent and delusion.
> 
> Step 1: Take the obvious way out.

“Oh.”

It happens on a Tuesday.

One moment, he’s standing there, waiting impatiently for Felicity to simultaneously finish her searching with one hand and shoveling her Chinese takeout into her mouth with the other. The next, he’s taken a hard seat on the cold, unforgiving ground.

Diggle is there in a second to yank him back onto his feet. Felicity’s jumped up from her chair, the victim overturned behind her, and forgotten both her computers and food in favor of confusedly peering at him over the top of her glasses. He gets to his feet with a grunt, brushing away Dig’s unnecessary prodding. The other man is hiding the smallest of smirks so Oliver knows Diggle watched him trip over nothing while standing still and his display of mother hen-ness is just for annoyance purposes.

“Oliver.”

His eyes are trained on her before she finishes the first syllable. The sudden attention makes her flush, still, despite their years together now. It probably doesn’t help that he’s looking at her through intensely curious eyes. 

“Oliver!” His head jerks back up, from where they’d wandered down to skim over Felicity’s upper body, the rest of her blocked by her monitors. “Are you okay?”

“Uh huh,” he mumbles, nodding then training his eyes on the floor.

Felicity stares at him for a moment longer before presumably turning and setting her chair to rights. He doesn’t chance looking up. With his luck, she’ll be bent over, and he’ll do something stupid like fall over again.

He waits until he hears the clicks of both keyboard and chopsticks to peer up again. Diggle is back over by the weapons case, but his shoulders are shaking, probably from trying to silence his laughter. When he focuses on Felicity again, he’s fully lost her attention.

Narrowing his eyes, he steps closer for better observation. Is there something different that he’s just noticing? Why would her usually colorful presence be brighter yet more soothing yet somehow heart-pounding tonight? There’s nothing special about their activities otherwise, just your run-of-the-mill, chase-bad-guys-while-scarfing-down-cold-Chinese-from-the-place-he-likes-to-ignore-is-Triad-affiliated kind of night. 

How did—

When did—

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Me?” he asks when it dawns on him that Felicity’s talking to him.

“No. The guy on the other side of the basement who’s busy cleaning his gun. I meant literally. Not... Yeah,” Felicity trails off. Whatever’s on her screens has taken over her attention again so Oliver chances another step closer.

“Got him!”

He’s edged so close her victorious fist bump catches him in the chest, and she pivots in her chair to look up at him, a smug yet sheepish smile on her face. Her joy, her satisfaction, and her pride all hit him in his gut, and he reflexively releases her hand that he doesn’t remember catching and holding onto.

“Oh,” he repeats uselessly, but Felicity just takes it as encouragement.

Calling Diggle over, she starts in on the details of their latest target. With her pink lips and sparkling eyes and fluttering hands contributing to the racket in his head, Oliver can’t focus on her words. His brain’s too busy throwing a parade now that the sentiment from his heart has finally broken through his thick skull.

_He’s in love with Felicity_.

That is _so_ inconvenient.

 


	2. Wanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unresolved feelings AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t even know what this is, sorry.
> 
> Opening line adapted from Catastrophe.

“Can you, for a second, accept that I like you and want to be with you, you stubborn idiot?”

Felicity gapes at him.

He’s not sure what she finds most surprising. His actual words or that he raised his voice at her or that he called her an idiot. It might be the last thing. He’s pretty sure it’s the last thing.

This back-and-forth has just been frustrating. He’s insanely attracted to her but also somehow... fond of her? Like he desperately wants to see her naked but he also sometimes wants to, like, kiss her nose? But he can’t do either for reasons that were seemingly bred into their bones and are absolutely ridiculous.

So Felicity’s poor, or he guesses her mom is. Big effing whoop. Whatever. Felicity’s got more ambition and potential in her pinky finger than can be found in both him  _and_  Tommy combined. Unlike money, those qualities are way harder to inherit, or to lose.

So he’s kind of a fuck up. He cares when it counts, though. Look at Thea. He’d rather cut his own arm off than let anything bad happen to her. If he had a chance with Felicity, he’d pull it together.

But apparently his,  _shudder_ , feelings are all crazy and one-sided because Felicity turns bright, bright red. Instead of—and it’s not like he’s imagined this at least fifty times before—throwing herself at him or something, she throws all her books into her backpack and hightails it out of the library. Then Oliver’s the one left gaping, wondering if he’ll ever see her again.

The short answer is no, not for a very long time.

(The long answer involves daydreams and actual dreams and drunk social media stalking until she seemingly falls off the face of the planet.)

 

* * *

 

Felicity doesn’t even know why she’s there.

Actual years have passed since she last thought of—okay, that happened last month so more like been physically present in—the Queen mansion. Manor, whatever they call it. Somehow, it looks just as forboding as ever, more so even. And she says that as a semi-frequent visitor to Wayne Manor. God, what is with rich people and their manors? At least at Bruce’s, there isn’t a chance of her being kicked out by the butler. 

Because she shouldn’t be here. 

Not in Starling City. Not at the Queen Manor. Not at Oliver Queen’s graduation party.

But Donna called wanting help with her move, and Felicity wasn’t such an absentee daughter that she could refuse. She found herself back in Starling—the city that collectively underestimated her and exacerbated her insecurities and made her feel inferior because of her lack of a trust fund—with every intention of helping her mom pack and never leaving the apartment.

Except Donna Smoak is a person who exists. More specifically, she’s a mother who cares little for her daughter’s intentions and lots about her unresolved feelings regarding a certain billionaire heir. Most specifically, she’s a woman whose voice can reach a very high and highly annoying frequency.

So instead of lounging on the couch in pajamas, Felicity’s standing in front of the Queen Manor and wearing her nicest/classiest dress, the one from her college graduation three years ago. She’s also waiting/hoping to get turned away by some overly polite staff member. There’s no chance of that though when the front door is as wide open as the gates she drove through. Rumor has it the entire city of a certain age was invited to this party, and the Queen parentals and young Thea are at a resort upstate for the weekend and for plausible deniability purposes.

Morbid curiosity draws her the final few feet to the door. Just like it made her drive out here instead of camping out at Big Belly for a few hours and lying to her mom about going to the party. Just like it made her park in the grassy field next to rows of other partiers with their luxury sedans and sports cars. Morbid curiosity will even turn tonight into a funny weekend story she tells her team at Wayne Enterprises.

Ugh. At some point she’s going to have to start taking personal responsibility for this decision. Like she needs to start taking personal responsibility for being young and dumb when Oliver threw— _admitted_ —his feelings in— _to_ —her face. Although young and dumb (and panicky) are pretty much all she has on that front.

A wall of sound accosts her even before she crosses the threshold. The crush of attendees are all holding their own ubiquitous red cup—somewhere, Moira Queen is having a seaweed wrap and a heart attack—and none of them notice her. That’s fine with her.

Felicity is only interested in one room and one person.

The library is likely going to be locked. If there are even staff on site tonight, she doubts it’s the same kindly housekeeper who used to keep her and Oliver knee-deep in snacks after school. Meaning no one’s going to be unlocking the library for her.

And for the person... Well, it’s late enough in the night that he’s probably  _entertaining_  in his room or elsewhere on the grounds. Felicity doubts she’ll be running into Oliver tonight with this many people, including scantily clad women, jammed into the McMansion.

Felicity is so intent on trying her destination anyway—the upstairs library filled with as many first editions as memories precious to her—that she doesn’t notice the man watching her sneak up a staircase.

 

* * *

 

Normally, a wayward partygoer is the perfect opportunity to find a girl alone in the labyrinth of the Queen Manor. Tommy Merlyn is about to seize that opportunity when he’s struck by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Then he actually spit-takes his beer.

“What the fuck!?”

After another moment of consideration, he breathes a laugh then, “Finally.”

 

* * *

 

The library’s door handle rattles in its oddly familiar way—up until age seventeen there was no way he would have been familiar with any library—and Oliver sighs. Chances are it’s a girl who’s looking for him or a couple who’s looking for privacy. He’s not in the mood to deal with either, not even the first option.

After years of these exact types of parties being the reason he wouldn’t get his shit together, Oliver didn’t want this party tonight. But Tommy insisted, and his parents just assumed that’s what he wanted, so here he is. Hiding out in his family library like some fucking loser.

At least the door is tricky—you have to pull down then up on the handle then basically hurl your entire body weight at it—so there’s a chance the intruder will give up and go away. But the door shoves open a moment later, and he’s apparently forgotten about the third option: Tommy, who’s found him (drunkenly) wallowing in this room more times than he can remember.

Except it’s not Tommy.

_She_ is petite and blonde with an ass that won’t quit when she turns to heave the door back into place.

First option then. Oliver sighs and goes motionless, hoping she won’t find him in this nook that’s fully exposed but darkened. Then she spins around, and even at a distance, even in this dimly lit room, he knows those eyes.

_Felicity_

She must expect the library to be empty because she barely looks around. Her eyes don’t even come close to the wingback that’s his refuge. Instead, she drifts left, to the shelf of first editions she used to salivate over in high school. Her inattention leaves him free to observe, to decide if she’s really real or some lucid fever dream.

The last time he saw her was in a tagged photo a few years ago. The mousy computer geek went goth, and somehow, despite her becoming even more not his type, Oliver was still intrigued by her. Now  _this_  look is the exact opposite of her goth phase, and so far removed from what she looked like in high school, she has probably been roaming around the city completely unrecognized.

Felicity gasps quietly, but it echoes in the high-ceilinged room. Her hand almost reaches to touch a spine then stops and hovers over it instead. This— _she_ —is how he came to appreciate the treasures in his family home, even if he lost that appreciation for a few years after he lost her.

Oliver speaks without meaning to. But just as he did back then, he wants Felicity to have and to enjoy the things she wants.

“You can pick it up.”

 

* * *

 

Felicity jumps at the unexpected voice. Since the lights were dim and the hallways abandoned, she assumed the library was empty. She assumed wrong.

The voice is deeper, rougher, than what she remembers, but it still makes her shiver, makes her yearn, in the exact way she’s been trying to forget for years.

Quickly, she drops her hand away from the shelf entirely and whirls around to locate the speaker.

His favorite wingback chair, a glass of dark liquor in hand, an ever darker look on his face. He’s lost that stupid shaggy haircut from high school—Moira must be relieved—and either forgot to shave this morning or realized what a good look scruff is for him.

Somehow, she hasn’t seen him close-up since running away from this very library years ago. The last few days of high school, including graduation, were spent avoiding him in new and creative ways. And for the years since, when she can write her own code, it’s easy to curate an internet experience free of Oliver Queen, except for what she needs to know about QC as a WE competitor. 

His appearance is so sudden for her that it feels unreal, like one of her dreams where she always wakes up in the next few minutes. The way he clenches his glass and the angry yet speculative look in his eyes, though, are more detailed than her imagination usually mustered up. Generally, her subconscious focuses more on the fantasies of what he looks like with his shirt off or how he kisses.

“What are you doing here, Felicity?”

Excuses bounce around her head, but there are only so many lies she can tell herself. In truth, she’s wanted to have the conversation she ran away from ever since she ran from it. There’s only so much speculation a poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks can dream up as to why the city’s golden boy suddenly has an outspoken interest in her. So the truth slips out.

“I wanted to see you.”

In the next moment, Oliver’s carelessly deposited his glass on a nearby end table, he’s up and out of his chair and  _stalking_  across the room towards her, his ridiculously large hands are gripping onto her waist, and his mouth is on hers.

Felicity is  _stunned_.

He’s frustrated by her lack of participation. Enough to pull back and demand, “Kiss me, damn it.”

That breaks her stupor. She shoves him back, and his surprise allows her to get him across the room until he’s the one with his back pressed to the shelves. Only then does she half-climb up his body and into his arms and kiss him as furiously as she’s always dreamed.

 

* * *

 

Oliver’s still not entirely sure Felicity is real. Everything about the night seems too convenient, too unrealistic, and too coincidental. What are the chances that, almost six years to the day after he spooked her out of his life right before their high school graduation, Felicity Smoak just comes waltzing back into the same library right after his college graduation? Looking hotter than he could have expected and, most importantly, looking for him?

But if this is all some weird dream or hallucination, then it shouldn’t matter that the first thing he does after hearing her speak for the first time in years is to shut her up with his lips.

Which feels as tremendous as he’s always imagined. Better, even. And that’s saying something given the number of times he’s fantasized about her.

It’s not until she’s got him backed against the shelves, her talented hands roaming under his shirt and along his belt, that he thinks to ask the question he’s always wanted to ask. “Wait,” she looks infuriated by his interruption, “why did you run that day? When I told you I liked you?”

God  _as if_ she needs the clarification.

Felicity laughs then, a little hysterically, and drops her forehead to his shoulder while still clutching onto the front of his shirt with both hands. “Oliver,” she wheezes, and the feeling of her breath on his neck is making him hate himself for interrupting, “I was an eighteen-year-old nerd who hadn’t been kissed since fifth grade spin the bottle. You were the hottest, most popular guy in school, who also happened to be incredibly sweet and considerate with me. It was basically fight or flight, and I guess I picked flight.”

“Really?” If he sounds shy, it’s totally not his fault. “So you liked me back?”

Felicity laughs again, but this time, she looks up at him, her eyes shining bright and amused. “I liked you so much I panicked and ran away to the other side of the country. Then was so embarrassed I refused to come back to the scene of the crime for years.”

He pulls a face at that, but then it’s Felicity’s turn to silence him with her lips. “How about we continue this conversation later, and you finally fuck me in this library like we both want?”

Yeah, okay, he’s totally on board with that.

 


	3. Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people in the Queen-Smoak-Clayton household are better at hiding things than others.

“ _Psst_.”

After a furtive look at his father, William very obviously darts his eyes to a lower cabinet then gives her a slow nod. Just as obviously, Felicity sends him a double thumbs up, then kind of internally smacks herself for how lame that is.

“What are you two up to?” Oliver, AKA Mr. Eyes in the Back of His Head, questions them without turning away from the overly complicated sauce he’s been carefully babysitting.

“Nothing,” they chime in unison with an almost synchronized amount of faux-innocence.

Oliver just scoffs at his double boiler. Clearly, he’s onto them but he’s apparently content to let them have their fun while he prepares dinner with William’s assistance. On the other hand, she’s assisting by _not_ assisting.

Felicity can’t tell if the weekend has slipped his mind or if his acting has improved that much because Oliver has been _nonchalant_ all day. They talked about it a few weeks ago, what to do about William’s first actual Father’s Day with a father. (The first, when the boy was practically catatonic from the loss of his mother, didn’t really count.) The agreement they reached was to let William take the lead and not draw any attention to the occasion unless he does first.

For whatever reason, Felicity didn’t expect her sweet stepson—how the hell did that happen?—to approach her nervously. See, he never had a father before, and Samantha did her best to gloss over that fact, and once he was old enough to really understand, he didn’t want her to feel like she wasn’t doing enough or that he was missing out so he tried not to ask, and, well—

What now?

As a fellow fatherless child, Felicity was intimately familiar with the former state of William’s life. Awkward schooldays dedicated to making Father’s Days cards while helpless teachers sent her pitying looks and shitty little snots lobbed snide comments. Then, once she was older, the quiet terror of worrying that Donna would abandon her, too, if she put one toe out of line. Finally, as a reckless teenager, pretending not to care at all about her mother because everyone would leave her eventually so she best leave first. Thankfully, fate intervened, for the better _and_ for the worse, for William before he could reach that evolutionary state.

But she had no idea what to do with William’s current situation. Noah’s reappearance in her life after nearly two decades of absence wasn’t exactly ideal, even if his attendance at the wedding reception was an interesting yet pleasant surprise. Her feelings towards her father warmed to about, “I guess I’m glad you’re still avoiding jail,” and not, “Thanks for making breakfast, lunch, and dinner and picking me up from school.”

So she told William what she knows to be true. That he shouldn’t feel obligated to acknowledge the day. That Oliver doesn’t have any expectations. That this Sunday could be just like every other Sunday they’ve had so far. 

Felicity waited for William to absorb that information before tentatively venturing, “But... do you want to do something?”

Slowly, with his forehead furrowed the same way Oliver’s does, he nodded. They had a flurry of planning after that. What to do, how to make it not _too_ much, where to go, but most importantly, how to keep it all a secret from Oliver.

With a little hemming and hawing, William decided on simplicity. A card and a small but thoughtful gift to show his appreciation for his recently discovered, occasionally misguided, but (now) always devoted, dear old dad. The struggle then became what that gift should _be_.

“Hey, Dad?”

Even with just a glimpse of his profile, she would never tire of seeing Oliver’s quiet half-smile whenever William called him by that title. Oliver acknowledges the question with a little hum and a glance over his shoulder. Using the shit-eating grin he clearly inherited from the Queen side of his genetics, William craftily asks, “Can we have waffles tonight?”

His forehead wrinkling, Oliver actually turns away from the range to look at his son with an air of confusion. “We’re already having steak and eggs Benedict. Don’t you think that’s enough?”

William shrugs listlessly as Oliver turns back to finish his sauce. “But _carbs_. I’m a growing boy.”

“At this rate, you’re going to eat us out of house and home before your growth spurt’s over,” Felicity pipes up before it gets too obvious that this is all a ploy. A _good_ ploy, but a ploy nonetheless.

“Blame Dad,” is William’s easy response. “Mom was, like, barely taller than you, Felicity.”

She and Oliver trade a look at the mention of Samantha. It’s taken a lot of patience and therapy for William to be able to casually refer to his mother. They hope that, with time, it gets easier for him but also that he never forgets the little details about his mom. With their minimal combined knowledge of Samantha, they’re ill-equipped to help him keep her memory alive.

“Okay, waffles never hurt anyone, I guess,” Oliver acquiesces easily enough. He moves comfortably around the kitchen, grabbing the bowl he set aside earlier to decant the sauce, before calling out, “Can you grab the iron?”

“Can you?” William shoots back. “I want to make the batter.” Quickly, he buries his head in the fridge to retrieve ingredients, and Felicity hides her smile behind her tablet.

Oliver’s too used to William taking his instructions, at least in the kitchen, so he stands stock-still in shock at the flippant rejection. Felicity knows what’s going through his mind—concern that William is already starting to rebel—when, really, it’s just waffle batter. Given all the shit he got up to as a teenager, karma could pay Oliver back a lot worse than imagined transgressions over breakfast for dinner.

William bumps into him in the course of trying to get his wet ingredients and Oliver’s personal waffle mix—no store-bought mix for the Queen-Smoak-Clayton clan!—on the counter— _mise en place_ is a state of mind, William!—but Oliver barely reacts. He only starts to move when William prompts him again with, “Dad, the waffle iron?”

Her eyes dart between William and Oliver as the adult-sized version opens the cabinet and bends to reach for the rarely used appliance. Okay, so her eyes pause and linger on her husband’s ass because  _yeah_. Then she shakes herself a little and refocuses on William who’s practically vibrating with excitement.

Oliver makes a concerned sound before jolting upright. He’s eying the present suspiciously, and Felicity belatedly remembers that maybe it isn’t the best idea to hide unmarked packages in their home. Even if it is wrapped in bright green paper and topped with a gold bow. Oliver must process the innocent and decorative nature of the package because his shoulders tense up, undetectably except to her expert eye.

“What’s this?” he asks, his voice slightly shaky to match the trembling in his fingers. One hand gently supports the long box—obviously, it’s an arrow—while the other strokes the cover featherlight, cherishing, worshipful almost. 

William ducks his head, suddenly shy. “It’s, uh, it’s for you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.”

It takes a concerted effort for her to be silent, to _not_ coo over how frakking adorable they’re being, or to ramble about how he should open it already. In fact, she lifts a hand to cover her mouth so she especially doesn’t ruin this moment. 

Oliver finally looks up, and there’s a weird smile on his face. For a second, Felicity can’t identify it but then she flashes back to the last time she saw that expression. That’s when she breaks. “Oh, love, don’t cry.”

He’d probably die before admitting it but Oliver sniffles quietly before retorting, “I’m not crying. You’re crying.”

Well, yes, she is absolutely tearing up, but he totally is, too. The big softie.

William, though, has zero patience for their emotions because he sidles up next to Oliver, each month getting closer to matching his dad’s height, and urges him to open the box. Then, he’s explaining the functions of the new trick arrows she and Cisco helped him design and manufacture. Felicity winces slightly at the mention of how William got the idea from watching Oliver fight on the monitors and hopes Oliver doesn’t pick up on that step-parenting goof. Still in the middle of his explanation, Oliver interrupts to crush the near-teenager in a hug that William doesn’t even protest, instead clutching onto Oliver with all of his growing strength.

This time, she does coo, and they separate just to glare at her with almost identical glowers. Not to detract from their moment, but she never thought she’d personally relate to this expression. Yet, somehow, Felicity thinks her ovaries are kind of exploding.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oliver is making a béarnaise.


	4. Closed Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver gets locked out, Felicity to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two-fer! The first is a Season 6 AU (like unrealistic, soap opera territory AU), the second is a silly neighbor AU. The summary applies to both.

 

* * *

 

_**SEASON 6 AU** _

 

* * *

 

“I don’t care! I want to see my husband _now_!”

The door bursts open a moment later, and with it comes a blonde woman followed by a uniform officer and his handler.

The woman stops short in her tracks at the sight of him standing, coiled, ready to defend himself if need be. Only his training and instincts keep the officer from running into the mystery woman’s back. Agent Watson pauses just inside the doorway. Everyone stares at each other expectantly, awkwardly. 

Since the threat is effectively nonexistent, Oliver drops his fists. Clearly, the woman has the wrong room, a rare case of mistaken identity in this carefully controlled fortress. He waits patiently for the woman to be escorted out, to wherever her husband is waiting, but she brashly shrugs off the hand the officer lays on her arm.

Some combination of the bright hair, the two-tone glasses, the clear blue eyes, and most distinctively, the sheer determination jogs his memory. Disregarding all of his training, Oliver breathes a questioning, “Felicity?”

She’s older than when he last saw her, although he is, too. She’s still beautiful, especially in her ferocity, but wariness has replaced the eternal optimism that used to shine in her eyes. Relief floods her expression upon his recognizing her, and she steps forward, uncaring of Agent Watson’s disapproving clucking. To his surprise, Felicity turns and levels her with a frosty glare, something she would have never done when he knew her.

This Felicity is apparently miles away from the young woman he accidentally recruited to his cause. Which is to be expected. He hasn’t even seen her since the night of the Undertaking. It begs the question of—

“What are you doing here?”

Her head tilts. He wants to tack on adorably because it’s oddly reminiscent of their first meeting, but this gesture is loaded with meaning he knows is there but can’t interpret. She glances over her shoulder at Watson again, and the two women have a silent conversation.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she finally answers, each word very carefully weighed on her tongue. Watson doesn’t stop her so she continues, “They wouldn’t let me in to see you.”

No, he can’t imagine the FBI would be keen on a civilian gaining access to one of its assets, especially one whose identity they’ve worked incredibly hard to conceal. According to official records, he perished in the Undertaking, chasing after Tommy chasing after Laurel. He remembers transferring money to Felicity and Diggle and absconding back to Lian Yu in some misguided attempt at martyrdom. From there, he fell off the grid and into the FBI, finally realizing his full potential as a highly trained weapon.

It’s been years. If Felicity is seeking him out, possibly revealing her hacking capabilities to the authorities, then it must be serious. Belatedly, her outburst comes back to him. She’s looking for her husband.

In idle moments, when he wasn’t worrying about Thea, he wondered what happened to their ragtag team. If Carly and Diggle stayed together, or if his former bodyguard reunited with the ex-wife he still had feelings for, or if there was someone else entirely. If his overqualified tech support went back to the straight and narrow, or if she found another way to utilize her talents to help the helpless. Her love life never really occurred to him because he didn’t see Felicity as the marrying type, but clearly he was wrong.

“You’re looking for your husband?” he prompts when she continues to stare at him almost incredulously. 

Felicity looks at Watson again—seriously, what is with that?—and his handler just shrugs in an obvious “I told you so” kind of way. He’s curious as to how they know each other, because they clearly do, but he knows now’s not the time for that. If Felicity, with all her abilities and hopefully Diggle for assistance, has come to the FBI for help, then it’s probably a desperate situation.

“I am.” Once again, her words are almost visibly considered before being released. He almost misses the nervous rambling that she used as both defense and deflection. “You’re—”

“You’re going to assist Ms. Smoak,” Watson smoothly cuts in, even as she hesitates slightly on Felicity’s name. They both notice, but it’s Felicity who sends the agent a perturbed look. “As she attempts to locate him.”

Oliver frowns at the agent who’s been his longest-serving point of contact during his tenure with the FBI. Her words are coded. The assignment is indefinite, until Felicity’s husband is found. He’ll be posted to Starli—Star City, one of the few major cities he’s never taken a mission in before. For some reason, he’s not just interacting with Felicity, a person who presumably still his ties to his old life, but _assigned_ to her.

Watson doesn’t meet his eyes, and he’s distracted by Felicity’s smile, shaky but with a touch of her old optimism. Instinctively, he offers her a tight smile in return. Something’s fishy about this.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, he’s sitting aboard a private plane.

The short conversation he had with Watson, while she half-assedly debriefed him on this assignment with no more detail than she or Felicity had given previously, did jack shit for his understanding. The agents clearing his weapons and equipment acted no differently. The suitcase he was handed contained no more or less provisions than he was used to.

The major difference is this private plane, similar to the one QC had, but Felicity waved it off as on loan from her company. Of all the things he’s learned about Felicity Smoak, that she’s successful enough to have access to a company jet is the least surprising. In fact, an unexpected feeling of pride wells up in his chest upon hearing of her success.

“Hi!” she answers her phone brightly as the flight attendant pulls the door shut. She’s on the other end of the plane, and he’s not trying to eavesdrop—no more than necessary for his assignment at least—but the aircraft is still approximately the size of a tin can. The flight attendant silently motions for her to hang up, and Felicity holds up a finger with a whispered, “My son. Just a second.”

A son.

Felicity has a son.

The knowledge hits him in the gut and sends him reeling. He barely overhears as she reassures her son that she’s taking off and will be back soon. Running around somewhere in Star City is a little boy who’s half-Felicity, half- _someone else_. After hanging up, Felicity raises a thumbs up to the flight attendant then checks over her shoulder. He keeps his face impassive until she turns back around, tugging a tablet out of her purse.

The plane rumbles down the runway and gains altitude all the while he sits and stares at Felicity through new eyes. It’s not hard to imagine her as someone’s mother. She’s more mature and more self-possessed. The overhead lights glint off the wedding ring on her left hand which supports her tablet. Obviously, _life_ didn’t stop for her just because he took himself underground and disappeared.

Finally, he pinpoints the roiling in his gut as jealousy. Felicity’s crush on him had been a boon, a rare bright spot, during that god-awful year back home. Even during that mission at Merlyn Global when they needed an elevator to themselves for actual reasons, he took a certain pleasure in foiling a would-be flirtation from happening. Two birds, one stone, and all that. He couldn’t—can’t—imagine Felicity reacting to someone else like she did—does?—with him, and the idea of her settling sets his teeth on edge. 

Her fidgeting gets more apparent as his perusal discomforts her more and more. Oliver can see how she holds herself tightly to not constantly look over her shoulder at him. He sighs. It’s unfair to scrutinize her for not living exactly according to his expectations, especially when she’s already dealing with a missing husband and a probably terrified son.

“Tell me about him.”

Felicity jumps in her seat, eyes wide as he settles into the seat across from her.

“My husband?” He nods at her clarification. “He’s stubborn,” her hand flies up to cover her mouth, “That really shouldn’t be the first thing I say about him in this situation, but he really is so frakking stubborn.”

Oliver nods again absently. That’s one fewer concern then. She found someone to match her tenacity after all.

“Brave, like stupid brave. Smart in a “non-traditional” way. I don’t mean that offensively but I’m like ninety-nine percent book smarts, and he’s all strategy and MacGyver’ing solutions. He’s got a really dry sense of humor no one sees coming. Fiercely loyal and protective. God, he’s just the best dad. Even when he’s being stupidly self-sacrificing. And I— _we_ need him back.”

All of a sudden, Felicity’s tearing up, and he cannot listen to her wax poetic about this guy anymore. 

“I meant more physically,” he prompts to derail her.

Felicity cringes before muttering in one quick breath, “Caucasian male, light brown hair, blue eyes, six one, approximately a buck eighty depending on how much he’s been working out.”

He almost quirks a smile, realizing that she’s picked up her style of descriptions from listening to the police scanner. He drops it, realizing that the description matches him and she really must have a type.  _You’re not special, Queen,_ the shitty voice in his head sneers, _Felicity found a better model and upgraded._

“Name?” he nearly barks, and she jolts, peering up at him through eyelashes clumped together by mascara and tears. “What’s Mr. Smoak’s name?”

“I can’t tell you that. Watson said so, too.” She looks pained as she says it so he nods in acknowledgement. It’s not the first time he’s had to run an operation without vital details. The guy must be some high-profile something or other, who the public can’t realize is missing. He figures she needs him to ruffle a few feathers, shake some change loose, nudge a few connections, and possibly provide protection while her hacking finishes the job without him compromising identities. 

Oliver doesn’t think Felicity would ever marry a guy who was a criminal, much less have a child with one, but he can’t let the suspicion go. “He’s not into something... dangerous or illegal?”

Felicity’s quick to shake her head. “No. This isn’t about that.” She mutters something far under her breath. “He didn’t really leave of his own free will, more of a “the lesser of two evils is still evil” type deal. But, now, coming back might not be entirely in his control.”

Oliver considers that carefully. It makes more sense, jives with Felicity’s description of her partner. He wants to believe she’s chosen a good man for her husband because that’s what she—or at least the Felicity he knew—deserves.

Suddenly, Felicity yawns. A jaw-cracking, back-arching, arms-stretching yawn that lasts for a solid ten seconds. When she settles back into her seat, she looks sheepish. “Sorry, I just— I haven’t been sleeping well. I just haven’t felt safe ever since he— Really, it’s why the company’s been doing great. Needed to pour my energy into something I could actually control.”

On the one hand, he’s glad to hear her rambling again. On the other, it’s awful that the only reason is because she’s so sleep-deprived. Closer inspection reveals the artful but many layers of concealer hiding the circles under her eyes so he urges her, “Sleep. You’re always safe with me.”

Felicity’s smile is sad, and she whispers a thank you before snagging a blanket from the seat next to her. He moves away a few rows to give her distance, no one likes falling asleep while being stared at, but not as far back as last time. Oliver spends the rest of the flight lost in his thoughts and vaguely trying to identify cities by their light patterns.

 

* * *

 

The two-level loft Felicity leads him into is nice, if not entirely what he expects for her living space. (Warm, bright colors and comfy furniture are what he recalls from her old townhouse.) But it’s not a living space at all. Glass desks and drawing boards populate the lower level, although they’ve been cleared of personal effects and even have a light layer of dust.

“So this used to be Thea’s, then we moved in, then we moved out, then my business partner and I were using it as temporary office space, then we moved out, and now it’s just vacant while we figure out what to do with it. There’re still two bedrooms upstairs, and they’re more or less still furnished.”

Oliver nods because he’s certainly dealt with worse even if all these windows and sight lines make him twitchy. The mention of two bedrooms does explain the suitcase in Felicity’s hand. Obviously, she intends to be fully involved in whatever he gets up to, something he should have expected from his former tech support.

“Where’s your son?” The question slips out, and a smile tugs at the corners of Felicity’s lips.

“Sleepaway camp. Figured it’s best for him not to, you know. At least not until things are more certain.”

Oliver grunts his agreement. Probably for the best if the little tyke never knows that his mommy brought in her old friend, the assassin, to help find his missing daddy. But something feels off about that, too. He hasn’t left Felicity long enough for her to have a kid old enough for sleepaway camp. After he voices the question, she shakes her head with a fond smile.

'“William’s his. Like _all_ his. Sometimes I see his mother in him but I’m not sure. She passed away before I got to know her. Anyway, I adopted him after we married. He still calls me ‘Felicity’—and that’s fine, I totally understand why and have zero expectations for that to ever change—but I love the kid too much. He’s my family now whether he likes or not, and I’m positive he won’t in a few years once the hormones really kick in. If he’s anything like his father in that respect, we’re going to be in for the fight of our lives. For now, William’s happy with his video games and computers. That’s what we bonded over at first. He’s crazy smart. His dad thinks he gets it from his mom but he’s selling himself short.”

Felicity watches him carefully as she speaks. This ramble is different. It’s not that she _can’t_ stop talking but more that she doesn’t _want_ to stop telling him about her stepson.

Oliver’s decent around actual children but he’s never mastered the art of feigning an interest in people telling him about their kids. So he tries to look approving and understanding, figuring she’s looking for that reaction, but the surface-level reaction seems to disappoint her instead. Oliver can’t muster up more enthusiasm. He’s too busy fixating on how much she must love her husband to adopt his son and love him so unconditionally.

After an elongated silence, Felicity sighs. “We’ll meet with John in the morning. If you’re hungry, keys and takeout menus are on the kitchen counter. Or John stocked the fridge earlier so you can cook.”

She kicks her heels into what seems to be a designated corner then climbs the stairs wearily. “Oh,” she pauses halfway up, “Your room’s over there.” With a weak gesture to the far side of the loft, she continues upstairs.

Oliver refrains from calling her back down for food since she looks like she hasn’t eaten lately. He may have been inattentive when they worked together but he at least kept her fed. A quick flip through the menus reveals some of his favorites—he’s glad to see they’re still in business—and the fridge has the basics. He decides on a simple omelet because the thought of leaving Felicity unprotected makes him uneasy.

When he finishes, he stealthily climbs the stairs and creeps down the walkway to the other room. Oliver stares at the unfamiliar bed, even tries to lie in it, but his gut won't let him settle down. Instead, he grabs an extra sheet and pillow and goes to rest on the modern-looking but surprisingly comfortable couch.

The beginnings of a question needle at his mind, only fully forming just before he drops into slumber.

How did Felicity know he likes to cook?

 

* * *

 

Waking up, he feels rested yet still as restless as when he first laid down. Something about this place just unsettles him. To his surprise, somehow having done so without waking him, Felicity is propped up in the nearby armchair and using the oversized beanbag as an ottoman. Her attention is squarely fixed on her tablet in one hand, the only part of this whole thing that feels familiar, while the other hand cradles a coffee mug. That would feel familiar, too, if not for the wedding ring standing out against the ceramic. 

“No engagement ring?”

It’s a weird question to spring on someone when you first wake up, and Felicity jumps in surprise. He’s impressed she doesn’t spill coffee on herself or drop her tablet, but apparently she’s an old hand at this. She looks like she’s about to yell at him for surprising her, except she stops short and scoffs almost fondly. 

“No,” her smile is wistful, “we eloped. John married us actually. Not like we’re in a three-way relationship or anything. I mean, John was the officiant.”

“Dig officiated your wedding?” Oliver tries to picture it. His stoic bodyguard-turned-friend joining Felicity and her husband in holy matrimony. The man always saw more than Oliver wanted and, near the end of their year together, seemed to be nudging Oliver in Felicity’s direction. He wonders what his old friend thinks of Felicity’s husband, but Dig must like him enough to marry them. “Aren’t you Jewish?”

Felicity just shrugs. “Wasn’t important at the time. My mother vehemently disagreed after.”

Oliver nods, realizing how much of a bobblehead he’s been in the last twelve hours. In any another circumstance, he would have taken charge but knowing Felicity and Dig, he assumes they’ve been thorough. It’ll be easier for them to catch him up than for him to retread old ground. He’ll double-check their work, of course, but he can rely on them to give him the lay of the land. For now, he settles for trying to balance his curiosity about their current lives with professional interest in the case.

“John’s on his way over. About twenty minutes if you want to get cleaned up,” Felicity informs him as if reading his mind. As he gathers toiletries from his bag, he wonders when she switched to calling Diggle by his first name. Wonders if he would have switched, too, if he stuck around.

The toiletries are unnecessary it turns out because the upstairs bathroom is stocked with half-used versions of his old standards. He picks up the cologne to contemplate it, figure out if Felicity or Dig kept the stuff from the foundry and just had it sitting in storage for all these years.

“Oliver?” Felicity sounds a little panicked on the other side of the door so he flings it open. She’s seen him shirtless before so that’s less of a concern than her safety. She freezes, eyes flitting to the bottle in his hand, then backs away slowly. “Uh, never mind. Too late now. John’s pulling up so if you could hurry...”

Before he can respond, she’s the one to close the door.

 

* * *

 

Diggle treats him with kid-gloves. It’s subtle, but there. The man no longer trusts him. Not that he did very much in the beginning, but whatever Oliver had won over is now gone.

He’s there to inform them that they’ll be driving to Central City. Someone at STARLabs has the beginnings of a lead, and it’s worth a shot to check out. Despite the warm forecast for the day, Dig produces a hoodie and hands it to him with a pointed look. Not wanting to waste time protesting, Oliver shrugs it and the hood on even if the attempted disguise will be pointless. 

Oliver knows what he looks like now. His hair’s recently buzzed. He’s been on medical leave since his last assignment so he’s let his beard grow hermit-in-the-woods long. It’ll never be as long as the fake one he used when being “rescued from” Lian Yu, but it’s coming close. Unless they run into Thea, who Felicity says is traveling with Roy, he’s unlikely to be recognized.

Despite his questions, Dig and Felicity deflect and tell him to wait until Central City. The two spend the drive chatting about Diggle’s family—apparently, he did reunite with Lyla, who’s still involved with the military somehow, and they have a son together—until Felicity falls asleep. Whatever her issues are with sleeping, she feels safe enough with him and Diggle around to snooze, and he’s not willing to disturb that.

The scientists at STARLabs are strange, a guy named Barry is especially overly familiar. Then again, most scientists he meets are strange, and he’s not exactly a poster child for normalcy. They run test after test on him. They claim it’s a precautionary metahuman procedure—even Dig goes through it since it’s been awhile since his last visit—but he has the feeling it’s more for Diggle’s and Felicity’s benefit. In case the government figured out how to clone people or something, and he’s not really _him_.

Finally, they get into the details. Felicity’s husband was reluctantly recruited by a counterterrorism group for his combat expertise and experience. (More and more, it’s starting to sound like Felicity found an Oliver-clone to marry, and Oliver’s not sure whether to be concerned on this guy’s behalf or his own.) He spent a few months in training before going on assignments for them. Everyone assumed he was playing along and working towards his freedom until a couple weeks ago when the Flash’s team encountered him. Her husband seemed to have no memory of them, despite years of working together, so now the concern was that her husband went entirely off the reservation. That the programming was so thorough, he no longer even remembers his family, much less how to get back to them.

The number of people potentially involved in this brainwashing is staggering. So many parties are invested in the perversion of Felicity’s husband to the dark side, that it rivals his own enemy list. Felicity and Diggle throw a list of names at him that almost sound familiar—the League of Assassins, HIVE, Damien Darhk, Adrian Chase, Cayden James, Ricardo Diaz—but with his memory still spotty after that head injury a few assignments ago, he can only remember snatches of prior affiliations.

He knows better than to ask if Felicity’s run the names through the alphabet soup databases. She got offended back then when he doubted her abilities. She’d probably take his head off now for suggesting that she slacked off in the face of her husband’s disappearance.

To his surprise, they decide to call it a day. The drive was long, the STARLabs team was up all night for some deadline, and no one is on their A game. He’s surprised Felicity goes along with it. He knows how fixated she can get, and this is her husband on the line.

Dig gets an emergency call from Lyla, and Felicity sends him back to Star City, saying they’ll take the train when they’re ready to come back in a few days. After an awkward yet short dinner with the increasingly strange scientists, something he definitely could have lived without and Felicity seemed to immediately regret, they find their way to a hotel for the night.

Only one room is available because of some conference that is irrelevant to him and uninteresting to Felicity. He leaves it up to her whether to try to find another hotel, but she apparently doesn’t have the energy and just hands over her credit card. When they reach the room, they discover only one bed, and Felicity scoffs something along the lines of, “Of frakking course.”

All in all, she’s taking it better than he thought she would. The Felicity of five years ago would have balked at the idea of sharing a hotel room with him, maybe spontaneously combusted from embarrassment. This Felicity just slams her suitcase onto the luggage rack. Before she disappears into the bathroom, she points a finger and glowers at him. “Don’t even think about sleeping on the floor, you crazy martyr.”

Oliver shakes his head in amusement. Somehow, she still knows him pretty well. He strips down to his undershirt and boxers then lies on top of the covers to wait his turn in the bathroom. The momentary quiet is nice even if the sounds of Felicity in the bathroom smacks of a domesticity he doesn’t deserve and indeed doesn’t have. Still, it’s pretty relaxing. The lack of life-or-death panic, the decent hotel room, the assignment involving people he’s missed seeing.

Felicity emerges in a tank top and colorful pajama pants. He’s seen her hair down once or twice, and the effect is still staggering. Oliver can’t comprehend how her husband could forget her. 

Without her prompting, Oliver vaults off the mattress and into the bathroom. By the time he finishes, Felicity is curled up under the covers at the far edge of the bed and facing the wall. Silently, he leverages his way under the blanket, lying on his back but mimicking her proximity to his edge of the bed. In fact, he’s about to fall off the damn thing.

“Good night, Oliver. I— Thank you for coming.”

“You never have to thank me. Good night, Felicity. I—”

Had he really been about to say “I love you”?

 

* * *

 

Oliver wakes to a light drowse. Automatically, his arm reaches out, finding the curve of Felicity’s hip, before he drags himself behind her. He pitches forward until his nose is buried in her hair then slips back into sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Oliver?”

Instinct tells him her question is more inquisitive and less “Wake up! There’s an intruder!” In that case, he’d be the one awake first anyway.

“Hmm?” he grunts, barely audible. Felicity wiggles against him so he tightens his hold, trying to remain comfortable. “Hon, I’m sleeping.”

“Oliver!” 

She sounds more insistent this time, her movements more determined. Oliver releases her so she can turn at the same time he props himself up on an elbow. “What? What’s wrong?” he asks when she just stares at him.

“Are you— You know who I am? Not my name but... Who we are? Who _you_ are?”

He tries to tease away the concerned wrinkle in her forehead. “Is this a test?” Then he glances down at himself and sees the white fabric covering his chest, and it’s his turn to be confused. He hasn’t slept with a shirt on since the early days of William living with him.

“What’s going on? I—”

That’s when he remembers not remembering. Waking up from a literally explosive day in the field, confused and disoriented. Letting the FBI fill in the gaps with half-truths and doctored information. Being benched and passed off/back to Agent Watson who watched him with eerie concern until even she felt it necessary to call his wife.

Felicity, his _wife_.

That explains her showing up in DC to drag him across the country. Staying at the loft with the early memories of their relationship. Rambling on about William. His unease at being feet from the spot Thea nearly bled out. Cramming him and John into an hours-long car ride together. The battery of tests Caitlin and Cisco put him through, and even Dig’s participation to allay his suspicions. The dodging and weaving around “Felicity’s husband” and the only slightly revised story about his disappearance. Her strange yet not exactly discomforted reaction to sharing a room and bed with him.

They were all attempts to stimulate his memory.

Last night, he went to bed with his memories of the past five years tightly sealed behind a closed door in his mind. Somehow, in the middle of the night, without any fanfare, that door opened. Now he’s awake as Oliver Queen, disgraced Star City mayor and former Green Arrow but always William Clayton’s dad and Felicity Smoak’s husband.

She’s still staring at him, and he realizes he never answered her question of who he is. “I’m your husband,” he says roughly, the words tasting like heaven. He’s barely finished before Felicity’s throwing her arms around his neck and he’s hauling her back into his arms.

“Please tell me this means you’ll shave now.” He lets out a throaty laugh, thick with barely repressed tears. Like he once told her, Felicity doesn’t have to be funny for him, but he loves her for trying anyway. “Oh,” she pulls back to level him with a serious look, “I’m _not_ joking.”

Oliver laughs, kisses her despite her squirming to “get away from that dead animal on his face,” and exhales a sigh of relief.

 

* * *

 

_**NEIGHBORS AU**_

 

* * *

 

“Wait, no! Open the fucking door!”

Oliver slams his fist on the wood then gives it up to desperately yank on the handle. It’s no use. His front door is locked tightly while he stands on the wrong side of it covered by nothing but a miniscule towel.

Seriously. It’s one of those packable, super absorbent, quick drying ones people use for camping or backpacking, and he has no idea why it was even in his bathroom or why his instinct was to grab it. All he knows is it’s barely wide enough to cover his ass and isn’t long enough to wrap all the way around his hips.

There’s a choking sound from one side of him. The _wrong_ side, his brain helpfully points out because it’s the side not covered by the stupid towel. He’s pretty sure he looks basically naked from that side, except, thankfully, his dick’s not flopping around.

Without turning, he knows who it is. His hot yet adorable and funny neighbor who he’s become friends with to both the joy and terror of the part of him that really wants to ask her out. _The friend zone is a construct of the patriarchy_ , a voice that sounds like Thea reminds him.

When he does glance over, Felicity’s eyes are wide and bugging out, a more extreme version of her usual reaction to seeing him shirtless. He’d be pleased if there were more than one plausible reaction as to why he’s locked out of his own apartment, without his clothes, and begging to be let back in.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he begins cautiously. Oliver almost puts his hands up in that universal gesture of innocence before remembering what a terrible idea that is. He does not need to flash the woman he wants to date before he even gets around to asking her out on said date.

Felicity, the actual adult, is dressed professionally despite it being Saturday. He knows she sometimes gets called into the office on weekends and has to adhere to the usual dress code, which is bullshit. The contrast just makes his nakedness all the more obvious, and plays into some of his sexy librarian fantasies like whoa.

“One of Thea’s friends broke in somehow. I was in the shower and, well, I just reacted and ran for it and she’s offended or something so now I’m locked out.” Her eyes lift from his chest to level him with a skeptical look, complete with raised eyebrows, because isn’t that just the ultimate fantasy? Oliver sighs, “I’m not into barely legal girls.”

Felicity lets out a dry chuckle before making a concerted effort to hold his gaze. He’d be uncomfortable with her blatant perusal if it weren’t exactly what he’d been trying to accomplish. “I’d call that ageism except, you know, that’s the morally correct answer.”

Oliver calls that a victory which kind of makes him want to mimic her fist pump but he’s careful not to lose his grip where one hand is keeping both ends of the towel pinned against his hip.

With an almost wistful sigh, Felicity turns back to unlock the door she presumably just locked with the keys still in her hand. “Come on, I still have some of your clothes.”

Ever since their first movie night at his apartment—his TV’s bigger—he’s been losing a collection of sweatpants and t-shirts to her perpetually cold form. He doesn’t mind really. Any guy she might potentially bring home is sure to be put off by another guy’s clothes all over her place.

Felicity cues up Thea’s number on her phone before handing it off to him and heading into her laundry room. While he’s replaying the situation to his increasingly pissed off little sister, she hands him a pair of sweats and a shirt then respectfully keeps her distance in the kitchen. By the time he hangs up, Thea is fuming and swearing to rain hellfire and brimstone on this other girl. He knows it’s futile to try to stop her.

“I’m sure she was just embarrassed,” Felicity offers after he dresses in the bathroom and explains that his spare key is missing off Thea’s keyring. Everyone can pretty much guess who’s gotten ahold of it.

Oliver shakes his head because he used to _be_ that girl. It was just more socially acceptable because he’s a guy. “She’s eighteen and thought it’d be a good idea to steal someone’s keys, break into their house, and proposition a guy almost ten years older while he was in the shower.”

She concedes the point with a shrug. “Well, you’re welcome to hang out here, but I have to get to work. Just lock up after Thea gives you the all clear. Don’t steal anything, though. I know where you sleep. Next door! I mean, you sleep next door, not like I’ve been creeping in your bedroom or anything weird like that.”

He nods seriously as her babbling dies down and bites back his amusement. Felicity shakes her head at herself and sends him a bright smile before retrieving her keys from a little bowl on the entry table. Just from the way her ponytail swishes, he can tell she’s highly amused by his situation. But once again Felicity isn’t judging him for it or blaming him for (previously) having the reputation that leads to young girls thinking he’d be receptive to this kind of behavior.

Before he loses his nerve, Oliver catches her by the hand. “Hey, uh, let me take you to dinner.”

Felicity freezes. Obviously, she wasn’t expecting the offer. “You don’t have to thank me,” she deflects with a head shake and a wry grin, “It’s just the neighborly thing to do.”

“I don’t mean as a thank you. I mean as a date.”

Her eyes go round like when she found him mostly naked a few minutes ago. Oliver thinks that’s mainly a good thing because she looked like she wanted to jump him after that. Felicity licks her lips then nods, “I’d love to.”

“Tonight?” It’s more of a statement than a question, and he thinks the arrogance balances out the eagerness of the suggestion.

Felicity doesn’t look that impressed with his high-handedness, though, and props her hands on her hips. “And what if you can’t get back into your apartment by tonight?”

His smirk is smug and nonchalant, his solution obvious. “We can stay in, and I’ll wear the towel.”

“Not for long, you won’t,” Felicity retorts. Based on her bright flush, that was supposed to be an internal thought, but, hey, it’s not like he’s winning any points for subtlety. “I’ll see you tonight then.”

With an almost coy smile, Felicity wiggles her fingers at him in another goodbye then shuts the door behind her.

Oliver releases a disbelieving chuckle and collapses onto her couch to wait for Thea’s arrival. Then he jumps up to lock her door in case what’s-her-face decides to come looking for him.

What’s that saying again?

When one door closes, another opens.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The premise of the Season 6 AU is that Season 6 happens and Oliver is taken into FBI custody. He begins working for them in exchange for a reduced sentence. On an assignment, he suffers a head injury resulting in memory loss. The FBI try to take advantage by rewriting his history until they realize he’s really a liability with the memory loss and/or Lyla and John are working on his pardon. They finally disclose the situation to Felicity, who of course comes in, guns figuratively blazing.


	5. Surrounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurt/Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MINOR CHARACTER DEATH
> 
> (That is, the character who dies is minor, and not, minor death of character.)
> 
> This is the saddest thing I've ever written? Which isn't saying much since I apparently specialize in fluffy AUs. But still. Sorry?

Ever since he crawled into her life, lying and bleeding out, they’ve experienced a staggering amount of death and destruction, all in furtherance of a seemingly unattainable safer and better world. The brutal, mindless violence barely registers for Felicity anymore. That’s not what does it.

A previously undetected, ruptured brain aneurysm is what breaks his unbreakable wife.

They fly to Vegas that night. William’s on a plane to meet them before the school even processes his request to postpone his finals.

Felicity’s in denial the entire flight. “It’s not her. She’s too young,” is her imperfect rationale that he doesn’t even try to contradict. Home address, driver’s license, physical description, dental records, the crying woman named Connie who’d called her in the middle of the afternoon after Donna didn’t show up to work. None of it’s good enough. For the first time probably ever, science and technology mean nothing to her.

Until they arrive at the hospital morgue.

Donna Smoak is buried in an unadorned pine casket a day later. For all her flightiness, Donna was surprisingly frank about the eventuality of death, having made arrangements with her synagogue and a local attorney. William frowns at the simple casket, understanding the tradition but not how such basic material could contain his larger-than-life grandmother. Conscious of how much loss William’s already experienced in his young life, Oliver keeps one eye on his son, but most of his attention is on Felicity.

He and William stand guard on either side of her, John directly behind. Their height hides her from the other mourners’s curiosity about the often-absent daughter. Yet not even being surrounded by her “favorite boys” impacts Felicity’s grim expression.

Despite the short notice, the funeral is well-attended. Donna was beloved in the community, and her friends overfill the designated area to pay their respects. He wouldn’t be surprised if the casinos are short-staffed right now. The rest of the team flew in from Star City—and Thea and Roy from wherever, probably on a sketchily acquired flight—reaching the cemetery just in time. Even Rory appears, stealthily slotting in next to John to stand close to Felicity. His quiet recitation of the Hebrew encourages her along until Felicity softly adds her voice to the chorus.

The sheer number of people there and _still alive_ to mourn Donna is what drives the point home for Oliver. She _was_ too young. She should have made it to old age, a firecracker to the last, with her funeral attended by their family and her _few_ still-living friends because she stubbornly outlasted them. The loss hits him almost as hard as his own mother. 

With little else he can do, Oliver keeps Felicity surrounded by her friends and family as a buffer against the well-meaning strangers, but it doesn’t seem to help.

Felicity goes quiet in her grief.

They return home that afternoon. Felicity and William sit s _hiva_ , although he’s not entirely sure if Felicity is doing it consciously or just in a state of shock. He does his best to observe the Jewish traditions for the mourning period in the same improvised, mixed cultures, well-intentioned way they’ve always done. The team tries, too. John and Lyla, in particular, consult a rabbi and go out of their way to be respectful.

On the third day, Noah appears at their door. Oliver hesitantly leads him in and watches as Noah silently sits on the floor next to Felicity and holds her hand. Neither move for hours.

After the seven days, William returns to school to make up those finals he missed. Before he leaves, he makes some noise about taking a leave of absence next semester and staying close to home, but Oliver discourages him. Neither the grieved nor the griever would want that for him.

Curtis hasn’t even mentioned anything about it during his visits, but Felicity immediately goes to back to work. She slips into the bathroom after him, showers and changes her clothes, slides into her highest heels, and sends him a defiant look when he’s surprised by her joining him for breakfast. He knows better than to second guess her, though.

Life continues. Felicity rouses from her intense quiet to a more understated somberness. She’s holding it together if only for William’s sake while he’s home on break. The holidays pass unacknowledged because of  _shloshim_ and a general lack of spirit. They send William to Central City for the week so he can have a normal Christmas and spend time with his only remaining grandparents. Oliver even skips the office holiday party, despite the scolding he gets from his chief of staff.

“She thought she’d die alone.”

The statement comes from Felicity late one night and seemingly out of nowhere. They’d gotten back from the bunker, both now in more supervisory than active roles, and fallen into bed. He thought she was asleep, curled in on herself like she's done for months now, but he was wrong.

“What?” he asks with equal measures of caution and surprise.

“Mom. She thought she’d die alone,” Felicity repeats almost monotonously. She unravels herself to look at him more directly. “I called the lawyer today.”

“Okay,” Oliver hedges. The woman attended the funeral to pay her respects and also to let them know to call her when they were ready. Knowing Felicity would need time to feel prepared enough to deal with the aftermath, Oliver sent her a check so she could continue to pay rent on Donna’s apartment and otherwise handle her affairs. He didn’t even realize Felicity felt herself ready to reach out. “What did she say?”

“Mom had instructions for everything. Stuff I didn’t even think she knew to think about. Movers, storage, her car, utilities, 401(k). Did you know she had a 401(k)? She even designated her bank accounts to William. Where the hell was this woman when I was growing up?”

The anger is just a defense mechanism, he knows. There’s nothing funny about death, especially of a loving parent, so Felicity hasn’t had that old standard to rely on. He doesn’t really know what to say so he shuffles closer on the bed and wraps her in a tight hug.

“She did all that because she didn’t think I’d be there to handle it. She thought she’d die alone and she did.”

“Felicity,” he sighs, when she stifles her quiet sobs against his chest, “Donna was just being your mom. She didn’t want you to have to handle it so she made arrangements herself. It wasn’t like she planned on leaving us this soon. There’s nothing you could have done. No one expected it.”

Felicity shakes her head, choking on a bitter scoff. “She always had migraines. Blamed the constant flashing lights or the cigarette smoke or never really knowing what time of day it was from being inside the casinos all the time.” Oliver rocks back, shocked by the knowledge that’s new to him but that Felicity has clearly been dwelling on. 

“ _No one_ knew,” he repeats emphatically, because he’s positive Donna wouldn’t have “gone quietly into the night” if her condition could have been treated. “And she may have been alone physically but she knew how much we loved her. She had friends who loved her, too. There were nearly a hundred people at her funeral with barely a day’s notice. That’s not someone who died _alone_. That’s someone who loved and was loved and is missed. Donna was loved in life as she is in death.”

Felicity doesn’t respond although her sniffling quiets down. She curls up again, tugging at his limbs until he’s arranged to her liking, almost fully on top of her, surrounding her. “Stay here.”

The “with me” is unsaid, but he nods anyway, “Always.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My knowledge of Jewish funeral customs comes from Wiki and a friend’s grandmother’s passing during college so yeah. Did my best.


	6. Caught in the Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter what, Oliver and Felicity just aren’t the type of people to reach a lifetime commitment smoothly and easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two-fer (again)! The first is a more literal MoiraLives!AU, the second is a more figurative Marriage of Inconvenience AU. Both diverge from established canon fairly early on, although at different points. Summary applies to both (again). 
> 
> I started and stopped a number of scenarios, and these two happened to make their way to the end so I figured there wasn’t a point in holding back 5K of words.

 

* * *

 

_**MOIRA LIVES** _

 

* * *

 

“Felicity, this is crazy. You can’t just pretend I never asked the question.”

Sighing, she flops over onto her back and ignores how good he looks propped up on one elbow like that. “Sure, I can. I’m just going to close my eyes and go to sleep. Hopefully, in a few hours, your sanity will be restored.”

Oliver sighs right back. “I’m not going to suddenly forget this conversation.”

Stubbornly, she refuses to answer. They’ve  _had_  this conversation. Many times. Loudly. Rationally and irrationally. In private and in public. The equation hasn’t changed so her answer doesn’t change. Felicity just wishes Oliver would understand that.

“Hey,” he says softly, rolling over more to lean against her hip and slide a hand onto her stomach. “I want to marry you.” And just like every time he says it, her heart skips a beat, her skin tingles, and her lips almost lift in a smile until she forces it down. “And I’m pretty sure you want to marry me, too.”

“That’s not the problem, Oliver.” It’s as explicit an admission as she’ll make. If she actually says the words out loud to him, he’ll never let it go. “Your mother is the”—she’s not crazy enough to call Moira a  _problem_ —“concern.”

Oliver scoffs at her lame finish. “I’m not asking you to marry my mother. I’m asking you to marry  _me_.”

“And if life were capable of being compartmentalized like that, it wouldn’t be an issue. But that’s exactly it. You want me to marry  _you_ , and I know you, Oliver. I know how important your family is to you. It’s what makes you  _you_.” Felicity rolls away again, trying her best to ignore how Oliver just cuddles in closer, wrapping his arm fully around her waist.

“My family is so important to me I want you to officially be a part of it,” he murmurs very quietly into her ear.

See, this is why she can’t look at him and have this conversation. Her heart would leap into her throat and blurt out an answer her brain knows will never work. “If we get married, your mother will make our lives imposs— _difficult_. She won’t let you near Thea. I can’t do that to you. I won’t.”

Oliver shifts uncomfortably against her back. She’s never told him the extent of the threats Moira’s made against her, but he knows his mother well enough to guess at them. “Thea and I are adults who make our own decisions. That’s not going to happen,” he reassures her, but his voice is tentative, unsure.

“Mmhmm,” Felicity hums skeptically. “Everyone knows how much you love Thea. It was like rule number one for every girl trying to get into your pants. Be nice to Thea. Why do you think she’s developed such a good bullshit meter?”

“Felicity, I’m not going to let my mother use my sister as a bargaining chip to control how I live my life. Neither will Thea for that matter.  _She_  loves you so clearly her bullshit meter is working just fine.” This attempt at reassurance is much more confident. Probably because it’s actually truthful. In fact, how well she and Thea get along has just made Moira  _more_  suspicious of her, which Felicity doesn’t understand at all.

With another heavy sigh, she pats his arm in some semblance of comfort. “I just want to go to sleep, okay? We can talk about this some other time.”

After a long moment, Oliver presses a kiss to the back of her head. She hates how helpless his “I love you” sounds. Hers isn’t much better.

 

* * *

 

“Girl, you need to do something about this. That boy is downright mopey.” John arches an eyebrow and nods towards Oliver who’s presumably working out but mainly just pouting and kicking the ground.

God damn. Could he be any more dramatic? Then again, this is the guy who runs around in a leather costume and mask and yells at people who’ve failed the city. Five years ago, he would have never cared about any of this, too focused on his mission, and now he’s acting like it’s the end of the world because she won’t agree to marry him.

Yeah, she gets it. He’s the first man she’s ever dated, ever even  _met_ , to make her consider the concept of marriage. Honestly, it used to be a nonstarter for her. Marriage was complicated and difficult and hard work and full of messy emotions and dependent on another human being who’s flawed by definition of being human and thus vulnerable to mistakes times two humans. Really, just nothing that her brain steeped in logic and code wanted any part of. Then frakking Oliver Queen came Tarzan’ing into her life, and here she is. Getting lectured because she’s too rational to jump headlong into a marriage where one party’s future in-laws redefine the phrase “monster-in-law.”

“Well, if you’ve got a quick fix to win over Moira Queen, I’m all ears,” Felicity snaps. She’s tired of being blamed for this. She knows the toll it takes to be estranged from family, and it’s not something she’ll subject Oliver to if she can help it.

John’s look is sympathetic, and she fidgets self-consciously. “You know, Lyla’s dad’s not my biggest fan either. Especially since he’s lived through his baby girl’s divorce from and remarriage to the idiot who let her go in the first place.”

Felicity knows he’s just trying to be helpful but, “And where do the Michaelses live?”

He shrugs in concession before mumbling, “Baltimore.”

“And how often do you see them?”

“Twice a year,” is the just-as-mumbled answer.

Right. It’d be one thing if Oliver weren’t close with his family, if they lived states away and only saw them during the holidays, but no. He has a standing weekly lunch date with Moira and Sunday family dinners. Grin-and-bear-it wouldn’t apply just to a week in December when everyone’s thoroughly lubricated with holiday cheer and alcohol, but to every week of, presumably, the rest of her life. (She’s certain Moira will outlive them all just to prove a point.)

Oliver doesn’t get it. Why would he? Donna Smoak loves him. Hell, any mother without knowledge of his nocturnal proclivities would be thrilled for her daughter to be discussing marriage with Oliver Queen. God, why does her brain hate her? She means crime fighting, not bedroom preferences.

Felicity peeks an eye open, hoping that none of that made its way out of her mouth. John doesn’t look like he wants to throw himself off a building, so she appreciates that he’s patiently waiting for her to mentally sort out a response.

“Exactly. It’s different when you live in the same city as them. Not just live but, you know, a city his family practically owns. There are streets named after them, municipal buildings, parks, benches, water fountains. The Queens are basically inescapable, and I really don’t need Moira’s disapproval hanging over my head like that. Can you imagine how miserable it’d be if she were actively trying to get rid of me?”

John’s eyebrows do this impressive thing where they emote his disbelief and exasperation at the same time. “Oliver wouldn’t let anything happen to you.  _I_  wouldn’t let anything happen to you. But you two need to sort this shit out before it gets worse.”

“Nothing to sort out,” Felicity returns blithely, and John rolls his eyes.

 

* * *

 

“You didn’t tell me to expect another guest. What a pleasant surprise. I’ll have Raisa prepare another setting.”

The understated scolding is directed to Oliver, who has the good sense to fake looking shamefaced.

Felicity’s more focused on rewinding that greeting while Moira leads them to a sitting room and immediately pours herself a glass of wine. After a few attempts at civility, Moira stopped. She developed, or maybe just started implementing, this way of talking to and about Felicity without ever actually addressing her or speaking directly to her. Felicity can admit that it’s both ridiculous and incredibly skillful. Sometimes, they’ll go an entire dinner before she realizes that Moira hasn’t once used her name.

“When are you going to let go of this, Mom?” Instead of responding to the criticism, Oliver jumps right into the reason he dragged her to dinner, while Felicity really wishes he hadn’t done either. “Felicity’s not a golddigger and she’s not using me. We’ve been together for over five years now, and you’re still—”

“Five?” she interrupts with a curious lilt, “I thought it was just three.”

“Okay, if you remember how I used to be, there is no “just” in front of three, unless you were talking about days, not years,” Oliver points out. He never fails to remind his mother how different their relationship is to the ones in his past since Moira keeps treating her as if she’s temporary. “And I say five because our friendship is the basis of our relationship, and  _that_  started five years ago.”

Of course, Oliver could also say four if he wants to admit they kept their dating underground—literally—for a year. In fact, she insisted on the year so they wouldn’t have to try to remember two anniversaries and accidentally mess it up. Details matter.

Oliver dragging her along to dinner, unannounced, and forcing this issue must be Moira’s last straw because she sets down her wine glass and begins pacing. Actually, the first sign should have been the alcohol. She doesn’t make a habit of drinking in front of Felicity, as if it’s a weakness or something.

“You want to know the truth, son? Fine. I disapprove of Felicity because of her  _nighttime_  activities.”

Felicity chokes on air. Moira’s comment is so unexpected, she doesn’t even know where to begin to respond. In the end, it’s Oliver who recovers enough to throw out an, “Excuse me?”

Moira raises an eyebrow challengingly so he rises to it, his bluster picking up steam. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply about Felicity, but you’re dead wrong, Mother.”

“Oh, I am not  _implying_  anything.” Her voice is sharp, deadly, and if Felicity didn’t already regret Oliver picking this fight, she’s definitely regretting it now. “ _You_ ”—Moira turns to face her, a vicious look twisting her expression as she advances—“would have everyone believe you’re a normal, upstanding citizen, but you’re a lying, deceitful criminal masquerading as some sort of vig—”

Suddenly, her view of Moira is blocked by Oliver’s broad back. The windows practically rattle when he roars, “Don’t you dare speak to Felicity like that!”

Against her better judgement, she tiptoes to peek over his shoulder, seeing Moira’s wide, shocked eyes. Obviously, she wasn’t expecting such an impassioned defense. Bracing herself, Felicity steps to the side, her hand reaching for Oliver’s to lend her support.

“If you know about Felicity, then you know about  _me_ ,” he speaks, calmer but resigned and tired. Felicity’s surprised by how well Oliver is taking another person knowing his—their—secret, but he must have had his suspicions before this. “More importantly, you know how much Felicity means to me. You must have an idea of how many times she has saved my life, and, still, you treat her like this.”

Oliver’s devastated, she can tell. All this time, they assumed Moira didn’t like her because she didn’t know. Moira only saw the lowly IT girl who presumably slept her way into being Oliver’s executive assistant and then girlfriend. Even once they began a public relationship and she left QC for a consulting firm, Moira viewed it as ladder-climbing, instead of the attempt to avoid nepotism it really was. But apparently they were both wrong. Moira knows and she still finds Felicity unsuitable.

Moira scoffs at his response. It’s as close to an eye roll as she’s ever seen from the polished, society woman. “She  _enables_  this suicide mission you have. You expect me to welcome her with open arms? Every night, she encourages this madness where you chase down armed criminals with a weapon from the Dark Ages. She’s going to get you killed!”

“It’s not a suicide mission,” Oliver immediately retorts because it’s definitely not the first time that phrase has been thrown around. “I am trained for this. I have a partner I trust. I have something—someone—worth fighting for.”

He squeezes her hand tightly, almost too tightly, before continuing. “I have faced heartless,  _soulless_  criminals who want nothing more than to watch the world burn. The only reason I don’t just survive but defeat them is because of love. The love I have for this city, for my family, for  _Felicity_. She’s not going to get me killed when she gives me a reason to live, to come home at the end of the night.”

If Felicity tears up during his little speech, it’s because Oliver doesn’t do eloquent or sentimental. Their first “I love you’s” were exchanged almost as a matter of course, because there wasn’t time to be anything but efficient and forthright during one of their foiled apocalypses. She knows his emotional IQ has grown by leaps and bounds, but he’s usually only expressive about his love for Thea, and most of the compliments he pays her carry the veneer of his old playboy personality. In truth, she much prefers their nonverbal communication. That, he’s never hid behind masks or empty words.

“If you can’t accept that, if you can’t even appreciate everything Felicity’s done for me, then we’re done here. I’m not going to live my life by your standards when you don’t even take my happiness into consideration. Goodbye, Mother.”

Felicity would consider Moira’s gasp dramatic if Oliver’s ultimatum were at all expected. With a firm grip, he leads her from the sitting room. In fact, they’re almost to the front entry before Felicity snaps back to herself. “Oliver! You can’t just leave your mother like that!”

“Why not?” he grumbles, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. “I’m not going to stay here and let her treat you like some second-class citizen.”

Her heart swells, as it always does, in response to Oliver’s protective instincts, but Felicity’s not worried about herself right now. “She is your mother. She is the only parent you have left, and you love her. Over my dead body will I be the reason you cut off your  _mom_. I don’t want you to choose between me and your family, Oliver.”

“So what? We just stay like this? Practically married but legally not because it’ll make my mom feel better if she never has to formally acknowledge the woman I love? This is insane. And I’m pretty sure ironic because as much as she accuses you of being a golddigger, she’d be happier if I were dating some high society girl out for our money.”

She ignores his last comment. Now is not the time to rehash her pet peeve about the definition and usage of ironic. “If we have to, sure. I don’t mind.”

Oliver fixes her with an exasperated look, and she winces. She knows his family history, that he grew up with the picture perfect nuclear family, at least until it all crumbled in an impressively tragic demonstration of rich people problems. Marriage—for the right reasons and not the social climbing ones—is important to Oliver in a way it never has been for her. Until him, that is.

“I don’t get it, Felicity. Why are you so insistent on not forcing the issue?” He stops them in the place where he once forced out that incomplete lie about loving her. It seems somehow fitting that they have another relationship-defining conversation in the same spot.

Felicity carefully weighs her response because she hasn’t been able to make him understand so far. “I don’t want you to resent me.”

“That’ll never happen,” he insists automatically, stepping closer to her.

She takes his hand then very logically points out, “You’re resenting your mother right now for trying to pressure you into choosing.”

“You’re not asking me to choose.”

“Exactly! Look, I’m not going anywhere. Your mom’s approval, whether we get married or not, none of that has any bearing on the fact that you are not getting rid of me. So if marriage is a deal breaker between you and your mom, then, yeah, she can win this one because there is no chance of me walking away over this. I don’t want to be the reason you lose your mother, and there’s a way for you to have a relationship with your mother  _and_  for us to be together. Us not getting married  _is_  the compromise.”

Oliver sighs and goes for the trifecta when he closes his eyes and shakes his head. It’s the trademarked  _Oliver Queen Is Frustrated_  move. “That’s not a compromise at all. That’s her controlling my life like she’s been doing forever. And it’s not just that, but she has these crazy,  _false_  assumptions about you, who you are. I’m not going to stand for that.”

“Yeah, you made that pretty clear,” Felicity widens her eyes emphatically. She wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbors heard him and she’s never even seen a neighboring house. “I can’t disagree with some of her reasoning. She doesn’t just think I’m an inappropriate choice for your girlfriend. She thinks that, if it weren’t for me, you’d have run out of steam or something by now. Wouldn’t be risking your life every night like you do.”

“If it weren’t for you, I’d have died five years ago in the QC parking garage because my mother shot me in the neck.”

Felicity cringes, recalling the incident that finally forced him to reveal his identity to her. “Well, she doesn’t know that. Or I guess she didn’t know that when she shot the Hood. God, I really hope she didn’t. This really puts everything in a whole new perspective. How long do you think she’s known?”

“Too long,” he admits in a grumble. His expression shutters closed, and Felicity knows that this isn’t something he’ll discuss right now, a nonstarter in a way their future isn’t. “I’m not going to continue this conversation with her tonight. Can we just go home?”

Felicity agrees with some hesitation before realizing that tension is running too high and they should probably call it a night. So to speak. He’s still planning on running around some rooftops tonight after all. She spares a glance over her shoulder as Oliver leads her to the car and spies Moira lingering in one of the hallways.

 

* * *

 

“Felicity?”

Gerry is young but hyper competent and polished to the point she suspects he’s been to cotillion classes or something growing up. It was hell getting him to drop the “Ms. Smoak.” For him to sound nervous or timid is rare and concerning.

Felicity frowns at her desk phone before tapping the button. “Yes?”

“You have a visitor,” his pause is loaded instead of exasperated so it’s not like she’s forgetting an appointment, “Mrs. Queen?”

Oh, fuck everything. 

She mentally slaps herself for that inappropriate reaction. Honestly, she’s expected this visit, just not so soon. After another moment to try to school her face into some sort of neutrality, Felicity gives Gerry permission to let the dragon-lady in. Unfair, sure, but she’s not feeling super charitable after their last interaction.

Moira glances around as she enters, but Felicity likes a tidy workspace and Gerry helps her keep it fastidiously neat. There isn’t anything in that respect for the Queen matriarch to criticize, Felicity’s sure of it. She purses her lips together tightly to avoid an untimely ramble. Something tells her the awkward silence is really more a battle of wills, and for once, she won’t be on the losing side.

Finally, the silence must get the better of her, or she realizes that she’s the intruder in this circumstance, because Moira begins with a stilted, “Felicity, I apologize for not having an appointment.”

This is the first time in actual years Moira has been close to civil or even directly spoken to her. Felicity’s not going to turn away the implied olive branch. “It’s fine. I’m between meetings,” she fibs to set up an out if she needs one, “What can I do for you?”

With an almost imperceptible sigh, Moira cuts straight to the point. “You can convince Oliver to attend our lunch tomorrow. He cancelled on me this morning.”

Interesting, he didn’t mention anything about that. Felicity quickly shakes her head to get back on track. “I’m sorry but I’m not in the habit of telling Oliver what to do.”

That happens to be a complete lie in a sense. She’s been the voice in his ear almost every night for the past five years. What she doesn’t do, though, is force him to act in a way he clearly doesn’t want to for good reason. Anymore, at least. She’s more of a guiding hand these days than a lock-him-into-the-foundry type.

Moira pins her down with a calculating look. “You really aren’t, are you? He does... what he does on his own.”

It’s not really a question, but Felicity nods emphatically. “We can speak freely here.” And they can because she sweeps for surveillance equipment every morning and after every visitor and after every time she leaves her office for any reason. Thanks for that batshit level of paranoia, Oliver, John, and every asshole who’s broken into their bases.

“Oliver makes his own choices, as do I.” Felicity’s not sure why she added that last part. It’s not like Moira gives two shits about her being a sometimes-wanted criminal, separate from its effect on Oliver. “Actually, he’s the one—”

“Who recruited you,” Moira finishes succinctly, cutting off what could have been a long, drawn out explanation. Felicity tilts her head, wondering what else Moira knows about their ragtag team and how long she’s known it. “Oliver’s my son. There’s very little about him I don’t know or wouldn’t figure out eventually.”

“Then you know how seriously he takes this,” she points out. The  _me_  is implied, but Oliver, their relationship, and their mission are so inextricable now that Moira has to see the connection. “It’s bothered him for a long time how you don’t—” Felicity cuts herself off because, despite how much it’s hurt Oliver, Moira’s disapproval of their relationship isn’t the major issue here.

What’s left its mark from last night is her dismissal of the Green Arrow’s importance to the city, to Oliver. That he hasn’t been able to share that side of himself with his family has been a strain and a burden since the very beginning. And all this while, Moira’s known and she’s worried and she’s failed to understand.

“For as long as you two have been together, I’ve known about his  _activities_ ,” Moira sighs, apparently still not trusting Felicity enough to give up her coded language. “They are... tied in my mind. Once I understood more about your partnership, I came to realize how vital you are to the operation. I believed—believe—that Oliver would struggle to maintain his ill-advised activities if you were no longer involved. You understand my intent.”

Felicity nods because she does. Two birds, one stone, and all that. Get rid of the socially unacceptable girlfriend and make his “suicide mission” too difficult to carry on. Kind of counterproductive, though, because then it might actually be a suicide mission if Oliver lost his tech support. But the Queens have always been the type to cut off their nose to spite their face.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Felicity restates the same words she uses to comfort Oliver. Except, instead of providing comfort, they're probably annoying the crap out of Moira Queen. “In either respect. If you want to fix things with Oliver, you’ll need to come to terms with the things that are important to him.”

Moira’s eyebrows raise at the unexpected show of spine. In most of their interactions, Felicity’s been content to let Oliver take the lead. It’s his family after all, and she’s not willing to upset them just to assert her position or whatever. She knows the strength of their relationship.

“I see,” the simple words should be colder than they are, but there’s a hint of  _something_ underneath, “Thank you for your time, Felicity.”

Felicity holds her breath until she sees Moira’s silhouette board the elevator through the frosted glass section that runs horizontally through her office's glass walls. Gerry tiptoes up to the clear glass portion to give her a questioning look with wide, curious eyes. She merely shakes her head before collapsing into her desk chair, the air leaving her lungs in one big exhale.

 

* * *

 

“She shot  _me_.”

Oliver’s incredulous, offended, and worried all at once. Because she refuses to believe that Moira’s office visit carried the threat of physical harm. Like Felicity has no doubt that Moira is absolutely ruthless—at times, she’s kept her family together through sheer strength of will—but she doesn’t think violence is the preferred method of conflict resolution.

“When you were the vigilante who broke into her office in the middle of the night to threaten her. Right now, I’m her son’s girlfriend, the upstanding, well-respected consultant. She’s not going to shoot me in broad daylight. Stop driving yourself crazy.”

“I still don't like it,” he grumbles, leaning down to press a kiss aginst her hair. She hums her acknowledgement before settling further onto his chest, relaxing until their breathing syncs. His reading heart rate will always be well below hers. “At least I don’t have to worry about her showing up at a nightclub in the Glades.”

Scoffing, she expresses her doubts, “I wouldn’t put it past her. She seemed to— I don’t know. I think she was surprised by how our conversation went. Maybe I actually gave her something to think about.”

“You do have that effect on Queens,” Oliver points out, and she can hear the smile in his voice. He’s always been pleased by how she slotted into a big sister role with Thea. “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to Mom again, if only to tell her not to drag you into the middle of this. She’s too used to using people to get what she wants.”

“Hey,” she leans up to face him, “we’ve got a lifetime to go. I don’t mind playing mediator with Moira every once in awhile if it helps her understand you.”

Oliver practically beams into her face. He’s smiling so hard, their teeth clack together when he presses his lips to hers. “I’m gonna marry you so hard one day,” he mutters, his hands quickly traveling to her waist to roll them over.

For the first time, Felicity doesn’t hide her smile, her excitement, for their future.

 

* * *

 

_**MARRIAGE OF INCONVENIENCE** _

 

* * *

 

 

**MONTH -1**

“Uh, no.”

“What do you mean  _no_?”

Oliver’s incredulous, thrown off by her blunt rejection. Even Dig, who looks proud of her refusal, gives off this underlying air of confusion. She’s a little offended but she gets it.

“I mean, no. I did not sign up for this half-baked, full-crazy idea. It’s one thing to spend all my spare time helping you. It’s another thing to forfeit my foreseeable future to the cause. So no.”

“But you... I mean, you’re always...” he trails off, running an agitated hand through his hair. Dig looks about ready to fall on his ass laughing.

Felicity sighs impatiently. “Checking you out?”

To her surprise, Oliver shifts on his feet, a little bashfully. “Yeah.”

Oh, so pretty boy  _likes_  the attention. God, what a frustrating jerk. Making her feel guilty for ogling him when that was apparently his intent all along. Two could play the fishing-for-reactions game.

“Sure, I looked. I even fantasized, too, in ways that made it really difficult to look you in the eye the next day,” she admits with nerves of steel to keep her voice breezy and casual. Gratifyingly, Oliver perks up, looking interested and eager, at her confession. Felicity mentally preens a little because she’s never drawn that much of an outward reaction from him before. Dig reverts to looking like he wants to off himself.

“None of that means I want to  _marry_  you.”

Her second blunt rejection knocks the wind out of Oliver’s sails. She’s never seen a kicked puppy before—because she’s not some crazy sadist who goes looking for animal cruelty videos on YouTube—but she imagines Oliver’s doing a pretty good impression.

“It wouldn’t be for real,” he reasons as if that’s actual logical reasoning. Based on Dig’s screwed up face, Oliver’s convincing exactly no one. “It’d be like a marriage of convenience.”

“More like inconvenience, you mean,” Felicity retorts. It’s meant to be under her breath, but she doesn’t exactly succeed because Oliver’s expression falls further. “I get a husband who, despite being a documented serial cheater, is considered so far out of my league I’m presumably a golddigger, and you get spousal immunity. Yay me?”

Before Oliver can respond, Dig is politely clapping like a golf spectator at the Masters. Felicity exaggeratedly curtsies while Oliver growls at both of them to cut it out. There’s a sinking feeling in her gut. Telling her that despite her rational,  _winning_  arguments, she’s won this battle and lost the war.

 

**MONTH -0.5**

She overhears them arguing one day.

“I said I would protect her. This is a way I can protect her.”

“But at what cost, Oliver?” is Diggle’s thoughtful response after the fact.

She knows why this is the solution. More than likely, one day, they’ll be called upon to testify against each other. It’s less of a concern for them. Oliver and Dig, at the very least, can successfully perjure themselves, but putting her on the stand  _ever_  is a recipe for disaster.

 

**MONTH 0**

They courthouse it with Thea and Diggle as their witnesses.

Thea is confused, rightly so, about why her over-privileged, over-sexed big brother was marrying his friendly neighborhood tech support but determined to be supportive of his unexpected—and odd, really so very odd—choice. Dig is silent and stalwart, displeased yet loyal. Felicity imagines he’s on the knife’s edge of objecting, even if the script doesn’t call for it.

The Justice of Peace doesn’t do anything ridiculous like prompt them to kiss, and for that, she’ll be forever grateful.

 

**MONTH 1**

Like if his emotional cortex were a hard drive, she would have dismantled and overhauled the entire thing by now because five years stranded on a deserted island—and in other interesting, soul-crushing places—fried it. She’d say beyond repair but occasionally she gets these glimmers. Rare instances where she doesn’t feel like she’s thrown her entire future—her entire life and  _heart_ —away for a man who just doesn’t  _see_  her.

 

**MONTH 1.5**

“Felicity.”

Oliver’s standing in front of her, trying to get her attention, but it’s futile. Her mind is split between her computers and admiring his bulging biceps and the defined veins in his forearms.

What?

She’s always been a multitasker. And ever since their  _marriage_ , he’s stopped working out shirtless. Which is ridiculous because he all but admitted that he enjoyed her attention. Her ability to ogle is limited, but she takes advantage of what she can get, and never in her life has she been more aware of someone’s  _arms_.

Turns out, she was right the first day to call it a marriage of inconvenience because they are both  _frustrated_. Men, even the few who expressed interest before this whole debacle, no longer approach her with a wedding ring on her finger, especially one from such a high-profile husband. Oliver can’t— _won’t_ —“cheat” on her despite the plentiful offers he probably receives. Not that he would even have time to. He spends daylight hours with Dig, who would probably castrate him if he as much as reciprocated flirting, and nighttime hours with both of them. Sure, he has some freedom to move under the hood, but she’s got him on comms and GPS. Not in a spying way, but in a for-his-own-safety way.

Actually, Oliver might find this whole arrangement entirely convenient. A nice cover story with Verdant for why he spends so much time in the Glades, a nice cover story with the fake wife for why he doesn’t use any of that time to pick up women, and all the time in the world to focus on his mission without any pesky distractions. Then at night/early morning, they go “home” to a spacious apartment with dual master suites, and no one’s the wiser. Looks like everything came up Oliver Queen.

“ _Felicity!_ ”

“What?” she barks, suddenly annoyed with him and all the demands he’s put on her life. Not even the way his shirt clings to his sweaty torso helps to alleviate matters.

He frowns at her, his mouth setting in a hard line, before a sigh escapes. “Do you want dinner? You’ve been at this for awhile.”

Then he does something actually thoughtful, and she thinks maybe she didn’t entirely screw herself over. “Yeah, whatever,” she mumbles, trying to hide the strange mixture of frustration and fondness. 

Oliver orders in fluent Cantonese, which never ceases to amaze her but he grunted at her the first (and only) time she asked about it so she doesn’t anymore. He checks his wallet for cash then starts up the stairs before backtracking. “Are you going to be alright by yourself? I can wait for Diggle to get here.”

“I’m fine,  _dear_ ,” she retorts sarcastically. His footsteps falter then start again, and he’s gone without a response.

 

**MONTH 2**

If she knew dancing was such a vital part of this gig, she would have put up more of a fight. 

Felicity’s never been particularly graceful. Just look at her tendency to word vomit for confirmation. Her clumsiness gets even worse when she knows there’s a room full of people and cameras watching her every move.

“Relax,” Oliver soothes.

Oh, man, she must be mangling him tonight. He usually puts up with her stepping on his feet without a grimace or word of complaint. She breathes an apology into his lapel, refusing to look up.

“It’s just me,” he tries again because she definitely did the exact opposite and tensed up after he whispered in her ear.

Unfortunately for him, him being him is the entire problem. Oliver’s got one of her hands in his, their fingers intertwined, and his other hand low on her back. Not inappropriately low, if not for the low back of her dress. And it’s his right hand—his  _restless_  hand—back there so his fingers are constantly moving, drumming,  _caressing_.

She’s basically a ball of fucking nerves, and Thea’s suspicious comments when they’d been dress shopping and his very existence are not helping matters. Felicity kind of wants to dig a heel into his foot on purpose, but he’d probably just smile through that, too.

 

**MONTH 3**

“Starter marriages are a thing, right? What? I’m not saying you went into it with the mindset of temporary, but you’re divorced and you dated before the getting back together with your awesome ex-wife thing. It’s not like you’re a unicorn. There are plenty of people who have a divorce under their belt by the time they’re, like, thirty.”

“Felicity.”

“I mean, society’s evolved. People are allowed to be wrong or to change and grow apart. It’s not this huge taboo thing anymore. How can it be? The divorce rate is fifty percent or whatever they say. And it’s not like this is a drunk-in-Vegas situation. I mean, it’s kind of simultaneously worse  _and_ better decision-making than that. But my point is we’ll be married for a  _respectable_  amount of time. We’re not like Britney Spears or a Kardashian.”

“I’m not the person you should be having this conversation with.”

“I’m just saying. Starting over in your thirties. People do it all the time.”

“ _Felicity_.”

 

**MONTH 4**

She’s almost asleep when there’s a quiet knock on her door. They had yet another function tonight to attend for the Queen name, and Felicity ended up begging off early because she’s truly, genuinely exhausted from everything. When she opens her bedroom door, Oliver—expected—is standing on the other side and holding her dress—unexpected.

“Oh,” she flushes a little, remembering how she shimmied out of it a few steps into the living room. With Oliver still at the gala, she knew she had the place to herself for at least a few minutes and, well, she kind of misses being able to sprawl out over an entire apartment instead of confining herself to a bedroom and en suite.

“We agreed.” His voice is terse, and he stares in the general direction of over her shoulder. “Clothes stay  _on_  in the common areas.”

“You weren’t home, alright? I just forgot,” she sighs in the simplest explanation. They’ve both been very careful about not leaving their respective rooms without a full set of clothes, whatever that might be for the season. He would’ve never known had she just remembered to pick up her damn dress.

Oliver still looks constipated so she tries for nonchalant this time. “I did live by myself for a few years before... this. As long as the curtains were closed, nakedness outside the bed and bathroom was a normal thing sometimes.”

Oliver’s jaw flexes multiple times before he grinds out, “What good are rules if you’re not going to follow them?”

“Just give me the damn dress.” She tugs the material out of his surprisingly strong grip. Not that it’s surprising for Oliver to be stronger than her, but that he would be holding onto her dress so tightly. “I’m going to bed. You’re being a little uptight about this.” 

She shuts the door in his face and tries to forget what he looks like, holding a dress she’s just taken off.

 

**MONTH 5**

The next week, she walks into the kitchen to find him cooking breakfast without a shirt on. Despite the obviousness of his passive-aggressive whatever, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she hipchecks him out of the way of the coffee pot.

The week after that, she walks into the kitchen wearing one of his henleys that keeps making its way into her laundry basket. (Even though he’s adapted to other chores he didn’t do growing up, Oliver’s not a fan of laundry for whatever reason and he thinks she doesn’t notice when he sneaks his in with hers.) He chokes on his water.

 

**MONTH 6**

“Sit down!”

When her Loud Voice doesn’t work, Dig shoves him back onto the table. Apparently, Oliver’s in so much pain that he actually stays there, glaring daggers at them both.  _Masochist_ , her brain accuses even as she bites her tongue to keep the thought inside,  _she’s married to a masochistic martyr, or is that redundant?_

Felicity peels the jacket off him, gasps at the extent of the early bruising, and tries to find the external wounds she can actually patch. Diggle steps away to haul over what seems like their entire supply of gauze and bandages and stitches.

“You,” she begins unsteadily, wetting a large swatch of gauze with saline solution, “are not allowed to make me a widow. Do you understand? I agreed to an amicable divorce, citing irreconcilable differences. Not a funeral and mourning and sitting  _shiva_  for your ass!”

He’s quiet as she tends to his injuries. Dig’s disappeared to somewhere, hopefully to get them food because she can hear her stomach growling in the silence. Finally, after taping up his ribs, she snaps at Oliver to get his pants off. She’s still so angry that not even the innuendo of the wording fazes her.

Only after she’s finished and he’s covered in an obscene amount of medical supplies does she realize she’s had her hands all over Oliver’s body while he sits there in his underwear. He’s seemingly unbothered, currently bent over to carefully pull up his looser pair of cargo pants. She has no idea how he plans on getting a shirt on since he can barely raise his arms with his banged-up shoulders.

In the end, she helps him into a flannel, even doing up the buttons that are too high for him to comfortably reach but necessary to hide the bandages. Felicity’s in the middle of some quip about how brushing his teeth for him is crossing a line, when he reaches for her wrist. His thumb’s gentle stroking over those tendons is soothing for her frayed nerves, and she sighs tiredly.

“Thank you.”

The sincerity in his voice isn’t rare but still unexpected somehow. Maybe more genuine, this time, and less grudging. When she looks up, hands still resting on his broad chest, his eyes shine with something more than simple affection.

 

**MONTH 7**

Something changes after that night. Like a dam broke in Oliver’s restraint. They’ve always sold the marriage with casual, familiar touching, but their lack of boundaries with one another becomes more apparent by the day.

Strangers to her, acquaintances to the Queens, comment on the loveliness of their honeymoon phase. How wonderful it is to see Oliver happy and settled after his  _ordeal_. She smiles blandly and scoffs internally. Honeymoon  _phase_? They’re never even having a  _honeymoon_.

Thea’s as irrepressible and irreverent as ever. If there’s one good thing to come out of this charade, it’s that Thea’s been inspired to aspire towards, well, normalcy. A life that doesn’t rely on designer drugs and adrenaline chasing for fulfillment. Roy helps her to relish the simple pleasures and little victories.

Felicity excuses herself from the  _actual_  loving couple. Sometimes it’s too difficult to interact with them, knowing what a sham her own personal life is. Thankfully, she spies Oliver and begins planning their escape since he still wants to head to the foundry tonight.

“Hey,” she slides an arm around his waist, leaning up to his ear with her hip pressed against his for balance, “Let’s go home. I can’t wait to get to bed.”

As usual, her common sense is two steps behind her mouth. Her eyes widen at how  _suggestive_  that sounded, especially in her current position all but plastered to his side. Even the middle-aged man she’s trying to politely pull Oliver away from looks amused in that “ah, young love” type of way.

His hand convulses a bit where it instinctively went to rest on her hip. “Yeah, let’s,” he agrees, his voice little more than a rumble. After a throat clear, he makes their excuses to the man who waves them off with an indulgent smile.

Diggle doesn’t comment on how quiet they are during the drive to the foundry. He does, however, meet her gaze—and Oliver’s, too—a few times in the rearview mirror with a pointed stare. They studiously ignore him.

 

**MONTH 8**

“Felicity?” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing distractingly. Would there ever be a socially acceptable reason for her to lick her husband’s throat in public? If not, someone needs to invent one. “We should discuss the expiration date.”

The statement throws her off. She strains to keep her voice neutral as she breathes a questioning, “Oh?”

It’s just— Sudden? Is that it? That there was no precipitating event that would prompt him to begin this discussion? She always figured there’d be some big victory, some Big Bad the Green Arrow would defeat, then Oliver would decide that Starling City no longer needed a protector every night. He would hang up the hood, and they would... go their separate ways, for lack of a better term.

But she’s still running searches that she’s planning to check on in the morning. How does Oliver intend on explaining why he and his ex-wife still spend so much time together at his club in the Glades once they’re divorced? It’s not really at all sensible for him to bring this up  _now_. Then again, a marriage for spousal immunity privileges isn’t the height of rationality either.

The reminder of what a farce this all is jars her into a longer response. “Okay. I mean, it was going to end eventually. When are you thinking? I was thinking maybe just the year mark before the official separation. That puts us at a year and a couple months once the divorce is finalized. I know it’s stupid, but a year seems decently long enough for a first marriage. I bet there are some bookies losing money for us having lasted this long already. But a year is like we gave it the good, ole college try, you know? And it just didn’t work.”

“It doesn’t work?” he repeats hollowly. Felicity finally chances a glance at him, previously directing her thoughts to their view of the skyline, but there’s nothing really to see because Oliver is very, very still. “You want a divorce?”

Her instinct is to blurt out a denial, but she catches that on the tip of her tongue and shoves it back down her throat so quickly she’s surprised she doesn’t choke. And what’s with that anyway? She  _should_  want a divorce.

This is not what she imagined marriage to be like, or to even be  _to_. If she got married at all, it would have been to a pleasant fellow, ideally cute and emotionally stable and in possession of similar interests. She would even take two out of three. Despite her crush on Oliver, she’s a practical woman, and she knew they were the longest of long shots, the hail-iest of Hail Mary passes. Even her fantasies featured them less like roommates in a business arrangement and more like passionate lovers— _shudder_ —who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. It’s a lot of words to say that this marriage lives up to neither realistic nor fantastical expectations, and, of course, she  _should_  want a divorce. 

She shrugs, avoiding a direct answer, “You were talking about an expiration date?”

Oliver hums noncommittally, then flashes her a pretty (fake) smile. “I was? I was thinking about the milk. It’s been in there awhile since you’re on that no-dairy kick.”

He doesn’t quite meet her eyes, and she gives him permission to toss it before saying good night.

 

**MONTH 9**

She overhears them arguing for the hundredth time, but this one leaves an impression.

“Oliver, you’re driving this bus,” Dig’s voice is unyielding and censorious, “figuratively off a cliff. She’s taking her cues from you.”

“I know, I know. I just—”

There’s a crash, and even before she heads in, she’s silently cursing Roy’s lack of aim and stealth.

 

**MONTH 10**

They trudge along. Felicity thinks she’s developing a tolerance for Oliver-the-husband because her pulse no longer picks up and her skin no longer tingles whenever he grazes a hand down her back and calls her his wife. But then he does something ridiculously simple, like catch her eye during boring small talk or drag over the waiter with the canapes she likes, and she’s in deeper than ever.

 

**MONTH 11**

“Hey, you okay?” she places a hand on his shoulder and leans down to peek at the arrowheads he’s sharpening. Not an unusual activity for him to silently pursue, but this silence is loaded, heavy with tension from the approaching anniversary of  _The Gambit_ ’s final journey and his father’s death.

Oliver shifts closer, breathes out a, “Yeah,” then turns his head to brush his lips against her fingers.

Felicity responds in kind, leaning down further to kiss the back of his head. He smells like traces of shampoo, a little of dried sweat, but mostly like home. She pulls back abruptly and stumbles away a few steps because she doesn’t—

_Oliver’s_  the one who initiates public displays of affection. No one needs convincing that  _Felicity_  can’t keep her hands off someone who looks like him. It’s the other way around, really, so she just... looks but doesn’t touch.

She can feel Oliver’s eyes on her as she settles back in at her desk. For not the first time, she’s thankful for the size of her monitors. Eventually, his whetstone starts back up.

 

**MONTH 12**

Thea insists on throwing them an anniversary party.

Felicity almost ruins the entire thing when she chokes out, “What?! A year? That’s impossible. We’re supposed to get a—”

Thankfully, Oliver stops her with a firm squeeze to her hand. The word  _divorce_  dies in a harsh strangle in her tightening throat. She blinks at him with panic in her eyes. Thea might suspect that there’s something else to their marriage but she doesn’t know  _know_.

Oliver breathes a slight chuckle then leans in to press a kiss to her cheek. “I know. It snuck up on me, too. Time flies when you’re with the right person, right, hon?”

Felicity bobbleheads her agreement, not missing Thea’s triumphant smirk. 

 

* * *

 

“Your sister’s hell on wheels,” Felicity complains as she kicks off her heels and wanders into the suite.

Oliver doesn’t disagree.

Of course, Thea knows by now that there were practical, unromantic reasons for their marriage. Why else would Oliver Queen of all people shotgun a wedding to a lowly computer geek at a courthouse? But she also seems to have bought into their relationship. Felicity thinks Thea sits at a happy medium where she believes they’re a real couple and the timeline to marriage was accelerated for  _reasons_ but they would have gotten there eventually so who cares?

(It wasn’t really that simple. Thea remained skeptical up until month five when Felicity still failed to show signs of a pregnancy. With that theory dashed, she slowly began to warm up, grew to like her, and maybe even understood why Oliver chose her.)

It must be why she got on the stage at the Starling Grand’s ballroom and said lovely things about their relationship and how they give her and Roy something to aspire to. Then she produced a key card and taunted them about the honeymoon suite and becoming an aunt sooner rather than later, until Oliver climbed on stage and took the key just to shut her up. As Felicity turned bright red in mortification, the crowd couldn’t stop laughing. Roy bore the brunt of her embarrassment because he could’ve talked Thea off the ledge of this spectacle and obviously chose not to.

There’s champagne and fruit and rose petals and even overnight bags in the corner that obviously Diggle helped with. It’s really a sweet, considerate gesture and gift, aside from the whole public humiliation aspect.

Oliver offers her a glass of champagne, and she takes it gratefully. She’s going to need it. Somehow, in this entire year, they’ve escaped the difficult circumstance of having to share a bed. This one is plenty large enough for the two of them, all the more room for  _activities_ , but her stomach still fills with dread.

She cuts off Oliver’s suggestion to sleep on the floor with an eye roll. In her bag, she finds her spare glasses and toiletries, but nothing resembling appropriate sleepwear. Felicity keeps the hotel robe on over the nightgown that would generously be called skimpy even after she crawls into bed. Oliver’s sideways looks of curiosity and interest are ignored. He doesn’t need it spelled out.

While he’s in the bathroom, she feigns sleeps until she’s actually fallen asleep. In the morning, she wakes up alone. It takes her a minute to realize that he’s not just in the bathroom, but that he’s really jumped ship right after their absurdly well-publicized anniversary party.

Her trying to sneak out of this hotel, this honeymoon suite, _alone_ is going to be a great gossip item for the papers.

 

* * *

 

She’s been seething the entire car ride. Not even Diggle could clear the lobby of the cameras documenting her solo departure from the elevator and hotel. Dig was fuming, too, about Oliver’s abandonment so she made him wait upstairs while she goes to yell at the emotionally constipated idiot in the basement.

“Where were you?!”

Felicity even hurls the overnight bag in his direction, but it falls short feet from his feet. 

“I’m sorry,” comes his stilted apology. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Well, no shit. That much is obvious. Felicity tries to put a lid on her anger as she sighs, “I said months ago that we should separate at the year. Why didn’t you just agree then? We wouldn’t have had to go through with that  _ridiculous_  party. We wouldn’t be crushing Thea’s naïve hopes to be one big, happy family.”

“I didn’t— You don’t— I didn’t agree because I  _don’t_  agree.” Despite the slow start, Oliver’s almost shouting by the end of it. Felicity steps back, not scared but confused.

“When I said  _expiration date_ , that came out wrong,” his face screws up, recalling the terrible turn of phrase from that night, “I should have explained. I meant expiration date on pretending. I wanted us to  _stop_  pretending, to be together for real. It didn’t come out right.”

Felicity chokes, gaping at his sincerely distraught expression. He’s kind of waiting for her to respond, but she’s got absolutely nothing. With a jerky motion, Oliver sighs and continues, “I realized that you didn’t understand me when you started talking about a divorce. And that was the last thing I wanted so when you backed away from it, I just went along. Figured this was better than nothing.”

There’s a whole Olympic gymnastics routine happening in her head, and she tries to shove whoever it is off the pommel horse so she can concentrate on getting a response out. It’s not entirely successful because she blurts out the first thought that fully forms. Which is... combative at best.

“You’re telling me we’ve been stuck in the most platonic marriage ever or maybe the most romantic friendship ever—I can’t really decide the more accurate description for this purgatory—because you thought that “expiration date” would translate to “hey, let’s quit acting and be together for real”? And when it didn’t, you decided it wasn’t a good idea to  _clarify_?”

Oliver winces then squints at her worriedly. “I guess, yeah. Look, I’m sorry we’ve been caught in this weird no man’s land. But can you just tell me how you feel about this whole thing?”

“What?” Felicity goggles at his prompting. So much about this morning, when all she planned on doing was yelling at Oliver for ditching her the morning after their first anniversary party, is not going according to plan. “Oh!”

“Yeah?” The question is both hopeful and yet another prompt. Oliver’s never been the most patient of men so she steps closer and reaches for his hand. Just as he’s done for a year now, he takes hers gently, turning it over so he can lace their fingers together. 

“Yes! I mean— Yes, I would very much like to stop pretending. It’s been difficult to keep reminding myself that it  _is_  pretend,” she confesses though Felicity’s pretty sure he knows about the blurred lines already.

“It  _hasn’t_  been all pretend,” he admits right back, confirming those niggling feelings she’s tried her damnedest to ignore. Because life wasn’t a romantic comedy—theirs in particular is more a superhero action movie than anything—and Oliver wasn’t falling in love with her while they faked a marriage for legal protection. “At some point, I realized that everything felt so natural with you because this is the way it should be. Me and you, together. So I stopped pretending even if it hurt to know that you still were. After all, you didn’t want to marry me in the first place.”

Felicity scoffs at the reminder of how she sassed him back when. He was being a high-handed, egotistical jerk so, no, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting her attraction was anything more than surface-level. And it was true back then anyway—that she didn’t want to marry the abrasive, commandeering vigilante no matter how many abs he had—but things have changed. They’ve changed.

“Pretty sure we were both walking the figurative plank on our wedding day. You didn’t want to marry me either so don’t try to play that card,” she reminds him pointedly. “But that’s our past. How about our future?”

Oliver smirks a little, tugs her closer with the hand he’s still holding. “The traditional first anniversary gift is paper so I got you those divorce papers you wanted.” Her jaw drops because she can’t believe he actually took her seriously and because that is definitely not the romantic and/or sexy answer she’d been hoping for.

As if just realizing how bad it sounds, Oliver shakes his head. “I wasn’t going to keep you with me if you didn’t want to be, even if it meant the possibility of life in prison one day. But now... How about we shred them together?”

And as awesome and symbolic as that sounds, Felicity’s got a better idea. “Why don’t we go home and go to bed and try the whole  _not_  sleeping thing again?”

His fingers do that twitching, grabby thing, like when she accidentally propositioned him in the middle of a gala in front of a stranger. “Yes, that,” Oliver agrees hurriedly, “Let’s go do that. Think Dig will drive us?”

“I think he’ll literally drive us off a cliff if you try and put him in the middle of our barely functional relationship again, but  _you_  can ask.”

Oliver scoffs at her sarcasm, stops them in the middle of the foundry, and kisses her for the first time, a whole year and a day after they’ve been married. She almost forgets about their plan of getting to a bed and not leaving for the foreseeable future until Diggle makes an unholy amount of noise coming down the stairs. Their friend pauses when he finds them wrapped around each other, one of her legs hitched up around Oliver with the arms she’s spent so much time admiring under her ass, about to lift her up.

“Can’t believe it took an entire year,” Diggle mutters, jolting back into step. He deliberately shoves between them to separate them on his way to the weapons cabinet. “Ridiculous.”

 


	7. Unfinished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity hates unfinished business. Oliver could not care less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rolling with EBR’s comment that Felicity may be a little... pent up at season’s start. Some Season 7 spec that’s never going to happen.

“Finish it.”

Her voice is hard and demanding in a way that has Oliver sitting up a little straighter, getting closer to whining.

“ _Felicity_ ,” he drags her name out in the way that normally softens her, but she’s unmoved. “It’s been six months,” he tries again, “Half a year.”

“I’m well aware,” Felicity returns tartly, crisply. Her tone is not helping the god damn  _situation_  in his pants. “I’m also aware that you’ve gone longer than that without sex”—he almost gets an objection in but she cuts him off—“Yes, that includes sex with  _me_.”

He grumbles in minor concession. That was a trying time in their history, and not one he enjoys remembering. Felicity also “suffered” during their estrangements, which explains why their unplanned rendezvous in the bunker the last time they’d been deprived of each other was so explosive (for once, not literally) and which makes it all the more agonizing that she’s being stubborn this time around.

Six months in maximum security prison, mostly in solitary confinement for his own safety, and all he’s wanted is to see his family again. The weeks have been filled with joyous reunions and a fair amount of catching up on the whole Star-City-is-in-pieces situation. He’s been cautious around Felicity, knowing how much she hated his unilateral decision and also the vulnerable position he left her and William in. Thankfully, she’s been less focused on expressing that anger and more focused on having him back.

They’ve been working their way back to each other in fits and starts.

At first, Oliver tried to sleep on the couch, uncomfortable with making Felicity sleep with a man she’d been barely seen in six months and who deserves every bit of her barely restrained anger. Each night, she would just jam herself between him and the back of the couch. So they shared their bed, careful not to touch in case his already nightmare-addled subconscious decided to throw in the traumatic gauntlet of prison into the mix. They woke up wrapped around each other anyway. 

The days were an entirely different issue. When he first came home, Felicity looked at him like she looked at Al Sah-Him, a stranger to her. They’d been through this transformation before so he trimmed “The Beard of Sorrow” to a more kempt length and considered taking those biotin supplements so his utilitarian buzzcut might grow back in faster. Apart from his physical appearance, they were just plain awkward around each other, their conscious minds overthinking and stuttering where their sleep-deprived unconscious minds were only too happy to fall into old habits. Eventually, they started to fit together again because their working partnership has rarely ever been at issue and, no matter how dire things get, their hearts are inseparable so there’s nowhere to go but forward. 

William presented his own challenge. He was eternally grateful for it but he could have never predicted how much William and Felicity would bond together, forced as they were to take care of each other. It’s to the point that Oliver feels like an unwelcome intruder, at least until William slips in a “Dad” and an easy smile with Felicity responding encouragingly.

All of the adjusting, the learning, and the tip-toeing has lead up to tonight, the first night they managed to shuttle William off to John and Lyla’s for a sleepover with his honorary little brother, who’s developed a bit of hero worship towards William lately, without feeling guilty about prioritizing couple time over family time.

So for their first official date night, they stayed in, and he made her favorites and a perfect crème brûlée, despite how out of practice he is in the culinary arts. There’s even a bowl of whipped cream stashed in the back of the fridge because he has plans, damn it.

Except Felicity is insistent on having this standoff because... well, because. He has a feeling it’s mostly her anger, spite, and grudge combining into an especially effective form of torture, and a little bit that other thing.

“It’s a  _rule_ , Oliver,” she continues as if it’s the first time they’ve had this particular argument.

He’s always indulged her rule before because it’s usually just some harmless anticipation-building and he always wants Felicity to enjoy whatever she wants in life. But tonight is different, more desperate. Just a minute ago, Felicity felt that same desperation, but now she’s on a new/old path, one designed for maximum frustration.

After tipping her head back for a long swallow that elongates her neck and displays the perfectly good hickey she interrupted—all of which makes  _him_  swallow in a futile attempt to alleviate his dry mouth—Felicity refills her glass, the action somehow very pointed. “I don’t leave good wine unfinished.”

“All wine is good wine to you,” he complains jokingly, earning a glare.

Because it  _is_  good wine. Trying to be the most remorseful husband to ever return from a prison sentence, Oliver went all out and finally procured that Lafite Rothschild he promised her all those years ago. His mistake was in getting  _two_  bottles. They finished the first with dinner, and when Felicity opened the second as they settled onto the couch, he didn’t think anything of it.

Then things escalated quickly, as they always do between them. He was all set to carry her off to bed for the first time in  _six_  months when she let out a whimper of protest—“But the  _wine_ , Oliver.”—and he realized he basically shot himself in the foot. Oliver collapsed right back onto the couch, where they’re still sprawled, Felicity half in his lap and half hanging off him to reach the coffee table and her precious wine. She maintains her precarious balance with her hand around his neck and his arm around her waist, which he’s all too happy to help her with since it gives him an excuse to maintain skin contact.

Eager to do his part, Oliver polishes off the remainder of his momentarily forgotten glass and holds it out to her for a refill.

“ _Nuh uh_ ,” Felicity scoffs, pushing back the bottle on the coffee table, as much out of his reach as she can manage. “This wine is meant to be savored. I worked hard for this wine. I’ve been waiting for this wine for a long time. I’m going to enjoy this wine, nice and slow, and if you’re just going to chug it, you can go sit in the corner and play with yourself.”

Oliver glares grumpily. Her accidental innuendos are one thing, one very inappropriately arousing thing, but she’s doing this on purpose. There is absolutely no need to talk about the wine like it’s  _sex_ except to frustrate him even more.

On cue, Felicity arches a challenging eyebrow. Yeah, she’s going to make him work for tonight. Good thing he’s willing to play dirty.

Setting his empty glass down, Oliver uses his now free hand to skate up the inside of her thigh (because her skirt is still pushed up from their fooling around). His other hand he keeps at her back for support, but he starts to fiddle with her bra clasp (because he already got her shirt off just as soon as she whipped his off). All in all, he’s pretty pleased with his improvising right now.

Felicity must be, too, because she takes a second to ignore her wine and kiss him very, very gently. Then, still pressed against his lips, she says, “But if you want to get me off while I enjoy this wine, that’s not a bad place to start.”

Oliver just about chokes on his tongue. His head jerks back so he can meet her smug, laughing eyes with his own shocked ones. Then he shakes his head slightly, sharing in her amusement before his hand wanders a little more to help out with her request.

This isn’t the first time since he’s gotten home that she’s skipped over the innuendo and gone straight to blatant proposition. Interestingly, Felicity’s become even more outspoken in her desires during his absence. It’s like she’s too impatient for him to figure it out on his own even though he’s been a quick study in how to please Felicity Smoak in bed. John and the rest probably don’t find this new development as awesome as he does.

Satisfied by her ability to shock him and his roving hands, Felicity goes back to her wine, her fingers stroking the stem of the glass suggestively.

That’s really the last straw for Oliver. He extracts his hand from between her legs, bundles her back into his arms, and stands, ignoring her surprised yelp. It’s almost ridiculously easy for him to support her weight with one arm, despite the muscle she’s developed.

Apparently, they both coped with their separation by upping their exercise regimens. John’s increased her training while Lyla supervises her at the shooting range, where Felicity’s “not a bad shot as long as she keeps her eyes open and is wearing her glasses.” Oliver’s almost afraid to ask what happens when she doesn’t. Even William, despite his initial protests, is in self-defense classes after school.

For his part, all that time away meant nothing to do but body weight exercises, to combat boredom and ensure survival. Combined with the unappetizing and meager prison food, he’s the leanest yet strongest he’s been since training with Slade on Lian Yu while barely avoiding starvation. Felicity’s already shown her appreciation by treating his abs like a lollipop, which is precisely when that whipped cream would have come in handy, prior to her fixating on finishing the wine.

“What are you doing?” is her half-hearted complaint when he swings a hand down to snag the half-empty bottle by the neck.

He doesn’t really answer, letting the path to their bedroom speak for itself. Their reunion sex isn’t going to be on the couch, with him sort of cut off and her a bottle and a half deep. Felicity must be done depriving him  _and_  herself because she doesn’t stall them any longer and instead rearranges to cling to him, arms around his neck and legs around his waist. 

Oliver pauses in the doorway just to smile at her, a smile she returns without any of that well-deserved resentment and anger tainting it. He makes a silent promise to really, truly confront those consequences in the morning. Then he tosses her on the bed and sets the bottle on the nightstand, telling her she can finish it when he’s finished with her.

For the first time, Felicity forgets about the wine.

 


End file.
